


All The Other Places

by Englandwouldfall



Series: Beach House [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M, Romance, past trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:03:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 104,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27498415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Englandwouldfall/pseuds/Englandwouldfall
Summary: As is usually the way with this crap, nothing is that simple.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: Beach House [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1624372
Comments: 39
Kudos: 79





	1. Funerals, coffee shops & bars

The funeral is at a little church, about twenty minutes away from the Milton House. The High School that he spent most of his teenage years in is fifteen minutes in the other direction and it feels a little strange to be this close to that part of his childhood. In reality, he doesn’t live that far away, anyway, but it _feels_ like a long way from the crumbly old church, perched in the centre of a boneyard that’s seen better days. The world he inhabits these days is a long way from Friday nights bumming around in Castiel’s childhood bedroom, Castiel rolling his eyes when Dean skipped the classes he sucked at to smoke and, somehow, always being disappointed when he came home to their scrubby apartment and found John Winchester wasn’t there. It _was_ a long time ago, now.

He was twelve when he met Castiel Milton. He’s known him for twenty years. Except, of course, he hasn’t. They haven’t spoken for the better part of a decade. He hasn’t laid eyes on him for the better part of seven years.

He arrives earlier than he normally would arrive to just about anything, more out of nervousness than respect. Both Sam and Bobby reckoned that Castiel would actually want him to be there when they talked about it, but neither of them bore witness to that last fight, and they didn’t hear the crap they said to each other. Dean had been pretty cagey about it at the time because he didn’t want to fucking talk about it and he doesn’t feel a whole lot differently about it now, seven years later. He did hash out the barest details with them both, though, a week after Dean got the email from Gabriel Milton telling him that Chuck had passed away and the details of the funeral. 

Sam had said, level and all knowing, _then you should go._

As far as he’s aware, Dean’s been in more regular contact with Chuck in the past few years than Castiel, not that means a damn thing about his right to attend. Every six months or month or so, he’d drop Chuck an email and they’d meet for coffee, or a drink, and Chuck would tell him about his latest project and Dean would talk shop. Sometimes, they talked about real things, but they only ever talked about Castiel once. Last time he’d emailed, Chuck had responded to request a rain check because he was ‘under the weather’ and the next time he’d emailed, Samandriel had replied to say that he was in a Hospice and had weeks left, which is probably how he ended up on the list of people who got the information about the funeral. 

_Forget what happened with Cas,_ Sam said, gesturing over his coffee over Sunday dinner, _Chuck was good to us._

And that’s true. 

But it’s also true that he spent countless teenage-evenings with Cas, morose, quiet and too-serious with disappointment about Chuck, trying to get Cas out of his funk. The first time Cas conceded to underage-drinking was because Chuck didn’t show up for Castiel’s birthday and Dean attributes giving up on pleasing his father all together as one of the main factors in most of Castiel’s shitty decisions. Part of what bonded them together was a mutual-understanding on how expectation, hope and disappointment focused on let-down father figures could get into your bones. He’s not sure that Dean’s semi-alliance with Chuck would win him any favours with Castiel, even if Chuck was good to them.

If Castiel cares, at all, anymore. 

Dean’s pretty confident that Castiel is either going to be pissed or indifferent to his presence, and Dean’s not sure which of those is better. 

He picks a seat in the church behind a pillar and a couple who were about as early as Dean was, so that he’s mostly invisible to the entrance way to put off the _moment_ for a little longer. 

After twenty five minutes of resisting the choking desire to duck out while he can, the funeral starts and ---

_There he is_. 

Castiel looks both terrible and incredible.

It’s… it’s been a long time since Dean has seen him. Seven years, and Dean’s first thought is that Castiel _looks_ a lot more like the rich, Ivy League educated corporate lawyer than he ever has, in his serious, black suit and shoes. The Miltons project power. That was true when they were teenagers, and it’s truer now. He looks unattainable and alloof and, obviously, fucking gorgeous. 

His second thought is that he looks awful. He’s…. Castiel is stoic and unreadable, but Dean kinda knows him, and he looks drawn out and pale under the rest of it. 

Last time Dean saw him was at his damnable bachelor party and then he had been flushed, a little dishevelled and fucking furious. They had a couple of conversations after that, but they were tense and curt, with Dean’s threat that he wasn’t going to come to the wedding hanging over them. All by text message. Dean had wanted to reread them, but Alastair had taken his phone six months after that and by the time he got his phone back, he was too saturated with everything else to consider it. 

Dean’s seen Castiel’s false calm before. Mostly, he used to find it infuriating, that Castiel (who has always been one of the most passionate and emotional people Dean has ever met) could throw up his walls with such precision. Behind that, he looks tired. Dean’s never seen him look so tired and it pulls at something long forgotten in his gut, dredging up some _ache_ that has him wanting to cross the church, put a hand on his arm and fucking hold him.

It _is_ surprising that the desire to get close is still so strong.

It’s a short service. 

Dean doesn’t really take any of it in, which means he’s doing a pretty terrible job at paying his respects to Chuck, along with the rest of it, and before he’s really registered what’s happening, people are starting to stand up around him and the crowd is thinning.

He’s... Nervous. There’s still time for him to slip out of the church, unnoticed, but now he’s actually seen Castiel he’s not sure he could walk away without finding out if Cas still cares, just a little, about how their friendship used to be. It's…

They were important to each other for a long time. 

Whatever false calm Dean had been projecting dissolves as the church thins away. It’s doubtful that he’s welcome, but he’s left it just late enough that it’s too late to change his mind. Cas… Cas made his feelings about Dean’s decisions pretty clear and there’s this huge, seven year gulf between them, now. 

Anna sees him first. She has her arm slipped through Castiel’s and he looks, mostly, as though he’s barely noticed the physical contact. He had barely blinked as Samandriel read the eulogy and Dean hadn’t heard a word of it, because he’d been transfixed by watching steady, stoic Castiel, and wondering how the hell he’d let this happen, anyway. He’s missed him. He’d been thinking about it, recently.

Castiel doesn’t look until Dean’s right in front of him and then ---

Castiel makes this wounded noise that breaks Dean’s fucking heart and then…. And then Cas has broken his place in the line, and he’s thrown his arms around him, and he’s shaking. Crying. He’d watched them bring in the coffin like he was watching a goddamn yogurt commercial and, suddenly, the walls have fallen away.

And Dean’s still in love with him.

He’d known that it was a possibility, but… he’s not the same person he used to be and it feels kind of remarkable that this thread has remained, knitting him back to that dumb twenty five year old who believed he had nothing left to lose. He shouldn’t be thinking about it, now, with Cas crying into his shoulder, and the rest of the Miltons lined up behind him, but there you go. He loves him. 

“Dean,” Cas manages, drawing back to look at him. It costs Dean to let go and let him step back. He’d forgotten about that twisted knife of longing that always fucking _haunted_ him whenever they were face to face; how delibertate he had to be about putting space between them and not lingering. And, Dean’s never actually seen him cry, and it turns his stomach over. 

“Hey,” Dean says, and then Cas has pulled him back into a hug, and Dean gets to return his hand to the small of Castiel’s back, and breathe. _Dean’s still in love with him_. He… he’s not sure he’s even sad about it. There’s something comforting in it, actually.

“You’re… here.” 

“Yeah,” Dean exhales, “Course.”

“Oh,” Cas says, and there’s something about seeing him stand there in his fancy duds, fucking crying, looking at Dean like he’s miraculous, that has Dean reaching out for the crook of his elbow and guiding him into the nearest seat with a muttered ‘c’mon’. They’re in the way, anyway, clogging up the entrance to the church.

And Cas is just _looking at him_.

And --- Dean doesn’t know what the fuck to say. It’s been _seven years_. Chuck is in a coffin and Castiel is goddam crying and Dean is so far out of his depth, that he doesn’t really know what to do. Cas… Cas _wants him there_. Cas threw his arms around him like Dean was the only thing holding him together and Dean is hopelessly, pathetically still in love with him.

“Sammy couldn’t get the time off work,” Dean says, voice low, because he has to say _something_. “He’s sorry he couldn’t make it.”

“That’s --- fine,” Castiel says, staring at his hands.

“It was, uh,” Dean begins, “A nice service.”

“Yes,” Castiel says, “You… you live nearby.”

Castiel doesn’t even know where he _lives_. That’s not surprising. He only knows where Castiel is based thanks to Sam, who’d been hinting pretty regularly that he should consider trying to contact Cas for a while now, before any of this happened.

“‘Bout thirty minutes in that direction,” Dean says, as Cas continues to look at his hands. “Look ---”

“Castiel,” Anna says from the doorway of the church, and her voice cuts through whatever kind of moment they’re having and whatever Dean was about to say. It’s probably a good thing, given he hadn’t worked out the end of the sentence. “We’re heading to the wake now. Are you coming, or will you be riding with Dean?”

Dean wasn’t going to go to the wake part of this whole thing . He’d discussed it with Sam and Bobby and concluded that it was a bad idea. Truthfully, he _liked_ Chuck, even if he’d never make an argument that he was a good father, but… he was, broadly, a good man. Summers in the Beach House were shining glimpses of joy in the midst of a pretty rocky adolescence and they wouldn’t have happened without Chuck’s generosity and inclusion. But, the funeral was enough to show his respects. Going to the wake is somehow making this about _Dean_ and that’s so far off what he wanted to achieve. 

“Dean?” Cas asks, voice rough.

“Sure,” Dean says, “If you want.”

He feels conscious of what he’s wearing all over again as they walk to the car. He hadn’t really slept last night and had spent the better part of this morning trying to work out what was appropriate and feeling a little wrong-footed and a little pathetic. In the end, he’d talked himself into getting a grip and pulled on the nicest black jeans that he owned and a black button down shirt that Dean’s pretty sure he bought for John Winchester’s funeral, that barely fits. He works in a damn garage and he hasn’t owned a penguin suit for years, which left him with his leather jacket and optimism that he wouldn’t look like the kind of casual that came off as disrespectful. In his crisp, black suit, Cas looks like he could have come straight from some meeting at his fancy corporate lawyer job, and Dean feels…. Exactly like he used to when they were teenagers. Inadequate. Cheap. It’s goddamn stupid, obviously, because Cas is still looking at him like he’s the seventh wonder of the fucking world, and… and Dean’s tangled up, bruised heart doesn’t really know what to do with that.

“Thank you for coming,” Cas says after he’s slipped into the passenger seat, down right polite.

“Cas,” Dean breathes, because Cas thanking him for coming to his father’s funeral like he’s doing Cas an unexpected favour breaks something in him. Obviously, he had to be here. He’d known, really, that it wasn’t about Chuck. He liked the man and he _did_ want to be here to pay his respects but, mostly, on the outside chance that Cas wanted him to be there …. There wasn’t an option. _He had to be here_.

Cas makes that wounded noise again at the sound of his nickname and -- 

And, it’s too much. 

“Come here,” Dean says, gruff, and pulls him into another hug. Cas collapses into it like the strings holding him upright had been cut loose, and it quences something deep in Dean’s gut, but mostly it just makes him sad.

“I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be fuckin’ ridiculous.”

“You,” Castiel says, “Dean,”

By the time he’s stopped crying and he’s settled, head on Dean’s shoulder, it’s started to rain. Unhurried, thick rain that brings with it a heavy stillness.

“What happened?” Dean asks, after a while, “I --- I didn’t know he was that sick.”

“Lung cancer,” Castiel says, pulling back to look at him, “I… I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay,” Dean says, “Let’s not talk about it.”

“You look well, Dean,” Cas says, “I. Are you?”

“More or less,” Dean hedges, “Cas. I’m —- I’m sorry.”

“You changed your phone number,” Castiel says, eyes blue, piercing; sad. “I tried to call you and it said your number has been disconnected.” Dean’s mouth feels dry all of a sudden, and guilty. It had never occurred to him that Cas had tried to get in contact, before. 

“When?”

“Once, on your birthday.” Castiel says, “And then when my divorce came through.”

Dean swallows.

“Don’t,” Cas says, “Dean. I knew how to get your number. I could have asked your brother and I didn’t.” 

“You. You...weren’t supposed to not be able to contact me if you needed me.”

“Dean,” Cas says, “That’s not what I meant. I just…” Cas begins, and then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out an honest to god business card and places it in his hands. “My number, if — if you need me.”

“Okay.”

“You lost your father.”

“Few years ago, yeah,” Dean says, running his thumb over the corner of Cas’ goddamn business card in his hands. “Sam told you.”

“Sam told me,” Cas confirms. “I’m --- sorry for your loss.”

“Pretty sure that’s my line,” Dean says.

“The impala looks good.”

“Thanks,” Dean exhales through a half smile. The fact that they can’t seem to string together a proper conversation without defaulting to his car makes that sad ache worse, but it’s still something that Cas knows it’s important. 

“You’re gonna have to direct me to this wake.”

“You,” Cas says, “You weren’t going to come.”

“Honestly, I didn’t think you’d want me to,” Dean says, mouth dry, “But, uh, I’m guessing you do.”

Cas tilts his head and looks it at him. It’s so familiar, except for all the details of Cas’ face that have changed. He’s a proper adult now, even if his tie’s wonky and his hair’s the familiar disaster. He’s a proper _goddamn lawyer_ , in his expensive ass penguin suit, nearly clean shaven and those _eyes_. Dean’s never seen him cry before and he’s never seen Cas look at him exactly like that and…

The guy has plenty of reasons to be angry with him.

“I --- I wanted to get back in touch,” Dean says, through the clog in the back of this throat that makes saying anything difficult, right now. “Before now. I, uh --- it wasn’t meant to be this long, Cas. Dunno how that happened.”

“Turn left out the parking lot,” Cas says, breaking his gaze to look out the window.

Dean exhales and turns the engine over and they drive to the wake in near-silence.

It’s infinitely better than Dean expected it to be.

*

After, he drives to Sam’s. 

“How was it?” Sam asks, cracking open the door. They’ve exchanged enough texts for Sam to know the headlines and to be expecting him, but only the barest details. Dean hasn’t been to too many funerals (just both his parents, really), but he’s pretty sure it’s considered rude to text in the middle of a damn wake. Instead, he had several pretty mundane life roundups with each individual Milton, while Castiel hung around like a shadow that couldn’t decide if he wanted to be there or not. 

“It was a funeral,” Dean says, collapsing onto Sam’s sofa and grimacing. “You know, black shoes, handshakes, alcohol.”

“And Cas?”

“He’s,” Dean begins, whatever words he was going to say catching at the back of his throat and dying. He doesn’t really know what to say about Cas. He’s… he’s Cas. He’s devastated, overworked, beautiful and perfect. He is, almost definitely, the love of Dean’s life. “Yeah, I’m gonna need a drink, and I’m gonna need your sofa.”

“You sure that’s a good idea?”

“I’m fresh out of good ideas, Sammy.”

“Still, huh?” Sam asks, standing up and walking to the fridge. It’s good that they’re at this point that Sam won’t try and talk him out of pickling his liver like he’s a damn child who can’t make his own decisions, partially because it means that Sam’s not really worried about him. He’d fight it more, if he really thought Dean was gonna be more of a self-destructive headcase than normal, and… it’s a little reassuring to have his brother’s confidence because, honestly, he’s not sure.

Right before he left, Castiel walked him out to the car and said _I wanted to get back in contact too_ before he disappeared back into the room.

“Still what?” Dean asks, even though it’s pointless to feign ignorance and he’s not really committed to it. Sam raises an eyebrow as he passes him a beer and settles on the armchair opposite him.

“Dean.”

“Okay,” Dean says, “Yeah. I’m still —- I’m still in love with him,” Dean exhales, then rubs the back of his neck . “How is fucking that possible? It’s been seven years, Sam. Hell. It’s been a full sixteen years since this goddamn started. _How?_ ”

“I dunno.” 

“Awesome,” Dean says, thumb scratching at the corner of the beer label. “Really helpful.”

“Look,” Sam shrugs, “I’ve never been in love like that. I don’t know.”

“Lucky.”

“You mean that?”

“No,” Dean sighs, “I don’t know. Maybe. I just… I figured enough had changed. Enough time had passed…”

“We never actually talked about it.”

“Really.” 

“Dean,” Sam bitchfaces, “You basically stopped talking to me about your problems when you met Cas. I’ve got subtext here, and that’s it.”

“Yeah, but,” Dean says, eyes fixed on his beer, “You know.”

“Well, yeah,” Sam says , “You were —- kinda obvious. To me, anyway.”

“Just to you?” Dean asks, raising his gaze to take in his brother’s expression. He’s relatively sure he knows the answer, given the number of times Bobby has given him ‘the look’ when it came to Castiel. Dean’s pretty sure he got it from his father and half a dozen Miltons, too. Hell, even Gordon used to raise an eyebrow at him if Dean mentioned his name. He _knows_ he wasn’t exactly subtle, but he’s never invited comment before. He’s never really talked it out with anyone. 

Sam’s expression is too level and his pause is too long. 

“Awesome.”

“Cas didn’t know.””

“Well that’s something,” Dean mutters.

“I don’t think so,” Sam says, still level, still sitting opposite him and watching him with that Sam-look. “For what it’s worth, I was always pretty sure that Cas was in love with you too.”

Dean tightens his grip on his beer bottle.

“Sam.”

He’s pretty sure doesn’t really wanna hear this, because… okay, people _suggested_ it when they were kids, but Cas was this intelligent, bad-ass Harvard-bound lawyer and Dean was just about passing high school. Dean was flailing about with his goddamn feelings about everything, including Cas, while Cas dated crappy guys that Dean hated and would barely talk to him about any of it, after the few disastrous conversations they had after Castiel came out. From sixteen onwards, Cas spent half of his damn life irritated at him, or chewing him out over being a dick, or avoiding him all together.

And that was all a long time ago now.

“No, Dean. I’m not —- you know I don’t tell you stuff just because it’s what you wanna hear and, okay, I don’t know anything about his state of mind now, but I was pretty sure about his feelings a good six months before I was sure about yours.”

“He got married.” Dean deadpans. 

“And divorced.” Sam counters.

“He,” Dean begins, staring at his beer for a long few moments. “He’s too good for me, Sammy.”

“No, he’s not,” Sam says. “Cas is great. You know I like Cas, Dean, but he’s not _too good for you_. He was just always great for you. You guys…. fit.”

“We haven’t freaking talked for the best part of a decade.”

“So. How did it go?”

“He —- he cried.”

“Well, his dad died.”

“No, I mean, he didn’t. He was full, stepford, Robo-Cas through the service, and then he saw me, and,” Dean falters, because Cas throwing his arm around him feels too personal, too intimate, even if half his family were there. “Then he cried. I — it was freaking awful. Never seen him cry, but, we. He came with me in the impala to the wake. We talked, some. Mostly to whatever third person was hanging around our conversation. Basics. Jobs. Living situation.”

“Relationship status?”

“Didn’t come up,” Dean says, “But either his boyfriend is a world class jerk who ditched him for his Dad’s funeral, or he’s single.”

“And how did you feel?”

“Awkward, mostly,” Dean says “But —- he wanted me there. He really did.”

“That’s good.”

“He gave me his fucking business card. Said he’d tried to call me. Twice.”

“Are you gonna text him?” Sam asks, and Dean breaks his staring competition with his beer again to send him a look. Considering his vague intention to get good and drunk, he hasn’t really committed to it yet. Sam’s made a lot more headway with his beer than Dean has.

“Am I a teenage girl?”

“I don’t know, are you?”

“His dad just died.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, in a way that sounds a lot like _and?_.

“And I’m in love with him. It’s hella inappropriate, Sam.”

“Dean. You could, I don’t know, talk to him about that.”

“Hey Cas, sorry your Dad’s dead, did I ever tell you I wanna jump your bones? Sounds _peachy_. After that, maybe I’ll set fire to his house and ask him to fucking marry me.”

“Bet you ten dollars he’d say yes.”

“Sam,” Dean deadpans, “It's—- bad timing. He’s hurting, and. I just — I’m not holding out for him to want anything from me. Whatever crap you’ve been smoking, pretty damn certain we’re not gonna be skipping off into the sunset any time soon. And that’s... fine,” Dean says, because he’s always been pretty sure that _some Castiel_ is better than no Castiel and he’s been operating without for seven years. He’s just missed him. “He was my best friend, Sammy. I want some of that back.”

“And?”

“And he’ll have questions.”

“Is that so bad?”

It’s hard to explain how exhausting it is to drag out your private trauma into the light for another person to poke at, process and understand, so it figures that this is something Sam _doesn’t really get_. There’s not loads of people in the world who have the details of what happened to him, or know that _anything happened_ , and…. 

Sam got briefed by the hospital and the police report, although they talked about some of the grizzly details after. Dean was a fucking mess for months. A proper, terror-ridden shell of a human, clogged up with panic and fear and trauma. Sam got details out of necessity. Sam got information because the information was spilling out of Dean’s head and making a mess on the fucking carpet, not because Dean sat him down and calmly told him about Alastair slicing words into his skin.

Bobby knows less, but still enough for it to be embarrassing. Sam was feeding him information secondhand for however long, when Dean was still enough of a fucking disaster that they all collectively agreed that Dean didn’t really qualify for privacy until he was less of a danger to himself. Dean’s relatively sure that Sam did filter some of that stuff out in the name of respecting Dean’s boundaries, but Bobby’s not dumb. Even if Sam never _told him_ he’d been sleeping with Alastair for months before it got bad, Bobby worked it out.

That leaves a dozen or so therapists who had the cliff notes written on their referral documents and Charlie Bradbury. 

He’s not exactly an expert at talking about this crap.

“Not bad, just complicated, Dean says, “There’s a lot of stuff he doesn’t know, about me. Not just the obvious. The guy still thinks I’m straight, for fucks sake.”

“Huh,” Sam says. 

“Yup,” Dean sighs, and looks at his beer. “I just —- he’s Cas, you know?”

“Yeah, I do,” Sam says, “I thought you should have contacted him a long time ago.”

“I was a mess,” Dean says, “And yeah, I get that was par for the course, but — I didn’t want him to forgive me just cause I was a fucked up wreck, and he felt sorry for me, or some shit. I can’t. I can’t deal with him fucking pitying me, Sam.” 

“That’s not how it would go.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“There’s a difference between being sorry something happened to a person and pitying them,” Sam says, “You’re not pitiable, Dean. You're strong and solid and surviving. What’s there to look at and pity?”

“You know as well as I do you dig far enough below the surface I’m a fucking mess.” 

Sam sets down his beer and fixes him with that look. 

“Dean,” Sam says, “I know you think the sun shines out of Castiel’s ass, but he’s a thirty year old divorced, reluctant corporate lawyer, with some serious daddy issues. You think he’s not plenty broken if you scratch the surface, you’re kidding yourself.” 

“That’s another thing,” Dean says, “You guys are in touch all of sudden?”

“You’ve always known that, Dean,” Sam says, “I know you laid your claim on him in middle school, but Cas _was_ my friend too.”

“You told him about Dad.”

“He asked how my family was.”

“He asked _how your family was?_ ” Dean repeats, “Your _family_. You think, maybe, he wasn’t talking about Dad?”

“Yes, Dean,” Sam says with an eye roll, “Despite his complicated code, I did, in fact, realise he was asking about you.” 

“And you said _what_ , exactly?”

“You are a teenage girl,” Sam says, standing up and stretching.

“Sam.”

“I didn’t say anything,”

“What do you mean _you didn’t say anything?_ ”

“Which words are giving you trouble?”

“Sam,” Dean says, “Stop being a dick.”

“I mean, Dean, that I never signed up to be Castiel’s middleman after your stupid fight and that I didn’t know what kind of information you’d want me to give and you had enough going without me asking you and dragging it up, so I gave him an update about Bobby and Dad and _literally didn’t mention you_.”

“Oh, I bet he loved that.”

“Well, I was pissed at him at the time.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Sam says, “You were in a bad headspace before any of it went down and a lot of that was Cas’ fault. He was supposed to be your best friend. You needed him and he wasn’t talking to you over something dumb.”

“Sam, I didn’t show up at his fucking wedding. That’s not dumb. You know none of this was Castiel’s fault.”

“It was easier to be pissed at him than pissed at myself.”

“Look this,” Dean says, gesturing vaguely to himself, where they’re both painfully aware that under three layers of plaid his torso was sliced and carved up. “Ninety percent Alastair’s fault, ten percent mine, zero percent yours, Castiel’s, or any other Tom, Dick or Harry you wanna bring to the party.” Sam grimaces at him. “Hey, I forgave myself for that ten percent, Sammy, and that’s not the topic this conversation. We’re talking about you being buddies with Cas.”

“He emails me like once every six months and asks about my job, Dean. It’s not a big deal.”

“So you didn’t,” Dean begins, running a tongue over his lip and considering the words. “You were both in New York when you were studying. You didn’t… meet up and cosy little chats about law and his _fucking husband_.”

“No,” Sam says, “He suggested a couple of restaurants, a couple of textbooks to buy and got me an interview for a summer associate job at a law firm about as far away from his firm and Milton & Milton as you can get, and that’s it. Dean, I haven’t seen the guy since I was seventeen, so quit being paranoid and text the guy.”

“Text the guy.” Dean repeats. 

“Get his address, so you know which house you're burning down before your proposal.”

“Fuck off.”

“You want some scotch?” Sam says. It’s a semi-loaded question, but it’s still a genuine offer.

“N’ah,” Dean exhales, setting down his nearly-empty beer. It’s a bad idea. He knows full well where drinking when he feels like this, all raw and emotional, gets him and it’s nowhere pretty. “I should get home.”

Three days later, Dean texts and suggests they have coffee. 

It’s fine. 

*

_Can I buy you a drink for your birthday?_ Dean texts, a week and a half before Castiel is supposed to turn thirty two. It’s a little lame, because he almost feels like he should do more than buy the guy a drink, but he’s also got no idea what the hell kind of gift he would buy, after all this time. They’ve exchanged a few messages and met up twice: it’s not like they’re suddenly best friends again. They’re something, sure, and he’ll take that over silence, but…

Cas replies and tells him they’re going out for drinks and that Dean should come join in, which is how Dean ends up driving an hour and a half to some swanky bar that’s apparently Castiel’s kinda place, these days. He left work early to change into the nicest clothes he owns and still looks like he missed the damn memo about the dress code, but he’s not going to _not_ come to Cas’ birthday thing if he’s been invited. 

He finds his group by the bar, suited and booted and kinda looking like the type of people Dean would normally avoid. Gabriel is there, though, carrying a tray of purple shots and looking both inherently out of place and completely comfortable. Cas has his suit jacket off. White sleeves of his button up pushed over his elbows, exposing the real life skin of his forearms that Dean probably shouldn’t be so freaking entranced by. Tie loose. Top buttons undone. God, he looks good. 

“Dean,” Cas says, loud enough for his voice to carry, “You made it.” 

“Deano,” Gabriel declares, and attempts to pass him a purple shot.

“Uh, no,” Dean says, “I’m — not drinking.”

“Alcoholic?”

“Driving, you asshat,” Dean counters, glancing back over at Cas, who's now been dragged into a conversation with a brunette girl. He laughs, deep and gravelly, and Dean kind of hates this girl, even though he’s known that Cas’ interest in women has been pretty much non existent since he was fifteen. 

“Looks like he’s having fun,” Dean comments, as Gabriel slides into the bar stool next to him.

“Does it?” Gabriel asks, “Looks like he’s a hot mess to me but….”

“Is he?”

“Is he what?”

“A hot mess.”

“Oh,” Gabriel says, “Absolutely. Knee deep in denial, regret and loss — but I don’t think I’m supposed to tell you that. _Don’t embarrass me in front of my friends, Gabriel._ ”

“Dude, I remember the time cherry aid came out of your nose. We’re beyond that.”

“I had specific instructions for you,” Gabriel says, dropping his voice down to a mimic of Castiel’s deep voice. “ _If Dean comes, be nice to him, Gabriel. Keep your opinions to yourself. And — please make sure he enjoys himself._ ”

“If I show? Said I was gonna.” 

“Don’t shoot the messenger,” Gabriel shrugs. “You wanna drink? The non-alcoholic kind?” 

“Uh, yeah,” Dean says, as Gabriel forks over an obscene amount of money for some douchey alcohol free beer (that actually takes pretty good) and an even douchier looking cocktail. Gabriel sticks around for twenty minutes or so before he slides off the bar stool and declares that Dean is ‘boring now’ and leaving him nursing his kid-beer at the bar.

Dean’s about as out-of-place as a nun in a brothel. He hates expensive ass places like this and hanging around with guys who wear penguin suits all day, but... that’s Castiel’s life. He did know that. He _knows_ that Cas is rich as hell and corporate as hell, even if Dean’s never really seen him like that.

If he wasn’t so goddamn in love with him, he definitely wouldn’t be there, but here he is.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas says, sliding into the seat next to him another thirty minutes later, and turning that blue, blue gaze in Dean’s direction. He’s drinking neat scotch, which kinda makes Dean even more in love with him, if he’s being strictly honest, and he’s definitely drank more than Dean’s ever used to seeing him drink.

“Hey,” Dean says, “Having a good day?”

“Better now,” Cas says, shifting to look at him more directly, “I am very glad you’re here.”

“Me too.” Dean says, and he’s not even really lying now that Cas is looking at him like that. Cas has never been good at the personal space thing and he hasn’t gotten any better at it with time or however many measures of scotch, and now their arms are pressed together on the edge of the bar.

“Good,” Cas says, and looks back down at his drink. “You have a new shirt.”

“Been seven years, Cas.” Dean says, almost smiling. “Bound to happen at some point.”

“Well,” Cas says, running a finger over the rim of his glass and looking at him through his damn eyelashes and, god, he’s attractive in this lighting. Fucking beautiful. “It suits you.”

“What about you, Cas,” Dean says, “Would’ve thought at some point in four years of law school they’d’ve taught you how to keep your tie straight.”

“Yes, it was the only class at Harvard I had to repeat twice.” Castiel says, “That’s a joke. They don’t allow you to repeat classes twice at Harvard.”

“Yeah,” Dean huffs a laugh and twists more in his chair to look at him, “I got it.”

“Humour isn’t my speciality.”

Self-deprecation isn’t a good look on him, really, which gives some credence to Gabriel’s ‘he’s a hot mess’ theory. 

“I dunno,” Dean says, “I’ve always thought you were pretty funny.”

“That’s right,” Castiel says, tilting his head and _looking at him_. “You do think I’m funny.”

“Also think you’re a little drunk.” 

“This is likely,” Castiel says, with that rough hue to his voice that’s always driven him half crazy. “You should join me,” He continues, signalling to the bartender.

He wasn’t gonna drink, but…. If he turns the offer down, Castiel might disappear back to his friends and Dean will have no real reason to drag this evening out any longer and he doesn’t _want_ to be the guy who shows up at Cas’ birthday for an hour before taking off, who sees him for coffee every couple of weeks and has stilted, awkward conversations when they never really talk about their history. It’s kinda hard to turn down the offer when it comes with a Cas whose alcohol-loose and a lot chattier than Dean’s seen him for years. 

“Pretty sure I said I’d buy _you_ a drink.”

“Next time,” Castiel says.

“You didn’t think I’d come.”

“You don’t like establishments like this,” Cas says, as the bartender turns back up with two measures of scotch that probably cost about half of Dean’s weekly wage. Really, that’s probably the reason Castiel ordered him a drink and ducked out on his birthday drink, because Cas has always been _aware_ of the financial aspect of their different upbringings. He’s gotta have done the maths on the average mechanic vs average hotshot corporate lawyer. “And you drove a long way.”

“It’s your birthday.”

“Yes,” Castiel says, holding out his glass out for Dean to chink them together, “Happy birthday to me.”

“Happy birthday,” Dean echos, taking a sip of his scotch. “Damn, that’s good.”

“I don’t want you to be angry at me anymore.”

“Way to segue,” Dean mutters, setting down his drink and raising an eyebrow at him.

“My apologies,” Castiel returns, “Yes, it is excellent scotch. My other point still stands.”

“Forgot what a smart ass you are.”

“As you said, it has been seven years.”

“New shirt, same sarcasm.”

“Actually, I don’t know when I got this shirt. Oh, you were joking. I see.”

“How’s that scotch working out for you, Cas?” Dean asks, nudging him with his arm to try and show he’s teasing in good humour. Cas’ lips quirk upwards into a hint of a smile. 

“Excellent,” Castiel says, nearly draining the rest of his glass and looking at him. He hasn’t really stopped since he’s sat down. Dean had mostly forgotten about those unending, blue stares. “I missed you.”

Dean’s poor, battered heart.

“Not angry at you, Cas,” Dean says. “Got passed angry half a decade ago.”

“Oh,” Cas says, brow furrowed and he is _still looking at him_. 

“And yeah, I missed you,” Dean says, quieter. The dip in his volume has Cas moving even closer to him, and he does not hate that, even if it’s totally fucking inappropriate. He should not be purposefully shifting his legs so their knees touch under the bar given _Cas’s Dad just fucking died_ and Cas has no idea that Dean has been mooning over him for over fifty percent of his life like some tragic Shakesperian figure. 

But, God, it’s _Castiel_.

“But you’re —- disappointed with me,” Castiel says, which feels a lot like he’s reached into Dean’s chest and used his heart as a stress ball. The concept that Dean could be _disappointed_ in Cas, after all the years, when he’s sat there resurrecting the past on his damn birthday is laughable.

“Cas. I’m not anything with you that we need to talk about tonight, on your damned birthday, when you’re six drinks ahead of me.”

“You’ve been counting my — oh, another joke. You’re very funny too.”

“Oh, I’m hilarious, and you're six kinds of charming.”

“Thank you,” Castiel says, dead serious and hyper-polite, still nursing his scotch. 

Dean shouldn’t be grinning like a total jackass, but he’s not altogether sure he can help himself.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?” Dean asks, holding his hands up in surrender and trying to stop smiling. “I’m just happy to be here.”

“You’re mocking me.”

“You’re cute when you’re drunk,” Dean says, even though he shouldn’t. He really, really shouldn’t. “So, uh. Any of those chuckleheads over there your boyfriend?”

“No,” Castiel says, “I am not dating anyone.”

“Huh,” Dean says, as his stomach turns over. It shouldn’t matter, because it doesn’t actually make a difference to anything. He kind of figured that Cas was single, given he hadn’t mentioned anyone and Dean hasn’t _seen_ him with anyone, but it doesn’t change the fact that Dean’s just barely functional and Cas lives in this corporate world where whisky costs more than Dean spends on groceries for a week. “Who's the brunette chick?” Dean says, nodding over to the group of Cas’ friends who migrated over to the booth just before Cas came over.

“Meg. She specialises in contract law and eviscerating third parties in merger negotiations. I don’t think you’re her type.”

“Not what I meant, Cas. Came here to see you, not to hit on your friends,” Dean says, passing the glass of scotch between his hands to stop him doing something completely goddamn stupid with his hands instead. “Just figured she was a good buddy. You just seemed like you were having a good time, earlier.”

“Meg _is_ very good at having a good time.”

“In which case, maybe I am here to hit on your friends.” Dean says, with an eyebrow wiggle that he hopes conveys the fact that he’s definitely joking.

“You were watching me.”

“Guilty,” Dean says, holding his gaze. Cas just _looks at him_ with this almost smile for long enough that it starts to feel like a prolong game of gay-chicken and then ---

\--- Then he looks away. 

“I should do introductions.”

“N’ah,” Dean says, “It's getting late and I pretty much spent all my pocket money on a kid-beer and a pack of peanuts. It’s a long drive, so I should —- I should go.”

“I’ll walk you out,” Cas says, sliding off his bar stool with a lot more grace than Dean expected given the level of alcohol consumption. “Dean,” Cas says, once they’ve reached the impala. He looks so goddamn serious as he looks at him, with that mouth, and those eyes. Damn. “Thank you for coming.”

“No problem,” Dean says.

And then Castiel hugs him. One of those hugs that’s more _embrace_ than casual hug, where Castiel wraps his arms around him and for a few moments Dean gets to _just hold him_. It’s a little like how Cas hugged him at the funeral, only now Dean’s got less to explain it away with. 

Dean thinks about it all the way home and the next day he texts Cas and suggests a birthday coffee, given Dean never actually got to buy that drink.

Coffee is… weird.

*

“Dean,” Sam says, eyebrow raising. “Is there —- you wanna talk about something?"

Dean weighs the words up in his mouth for a few moments, because they feel kinda juvenile and dumb, but… hell, this whole thing about still being in love with his childhood best friend is partially both of those things, but it’s also this agonising, precious reminder that those parts of himself weren’t cut out of him. He is still that angry, kid teenager, and that dumbass twenty year old, as well as the bruised, but wiser thirty something that he is now. It’s reassuring, mostly. 

“Cas,” Dean says, already half regretting it. He already put off talking about it all the way through their usual Friday night dinner and the beers Dean suggested they have after dinner, until Sam was about to leave and Dean kept stalling. “You said you thought he used to have feelings for me. What —- what made you think that?”

Sam sets his jacket down and turns to look at him. 

“Did something happen at his birthday drinks?”

“No,” Dean says, “No, I mean, not somethin’, something. Just,” Dean stalls, glancing down at his hands and feeling kind of stupid. “He —- he looks at me, a lot.”

Sam snorts.

“All right, jackass, forget it.”

“No, sorry, you’re right,” Sam says, trying to reign in his smirk and missing. “I’m not — I’m not laughing at you, it’s just. Understatement of the century. Carry on.”

“He was drunk,” Dean says, “And, uh. We had coffee a couple days after and I… got the impression he thought he’d, I don’t know, given something away. Like he was —- embarrassed. And he was…” Dean pauses, trying to find the right words. “Careful.” 

“Careful, how?”

“For a start, he _didn’t_ do the looking thing.” 

“He didn’t look at you?”

“No,” Dean says, “No, I mean he _looked_ at me, but a … a normal amount. Not a guy-has-a-staring-problem-amount and it was… weird. Thought the staring thing was just a blanket Cas thing.”

“As someone who’s third-wheeled for those staring competitions for years, I can confirm that it's you-specific. _Not_ that you didn’t stare back.” Sam says, which makes Dean’s stomach tighten. Just because it’s true, doesn’t mean that he likes being reminded of it.

“So. That was the thing you saw. In Cas.” 

“It was a lot of different things, Dean,” Sam says, “He —- he hated your girlfriends. He… he used to get quieter when you hung out with Micheal and the others, but always made an effort to include me in things, because he knew that was important to you. He — he wanted to impress you and make you happy and stop you from doing dumb stuff. When he started dating, he used to always… try and gauge your reaction. And yes, there was the staring thing, and how straight lipped and quietly defensive he’d get if anyone caught him at it. Including you,” Sam says, “Look, Cas…. Cas was a quiet, serious kid from a big family, and you made him feel interesting and unique and that’s always been written all over his face.”

“He is,” Dean says, “Those things.”

“I know that,” Sam says.

“But,” Dean says, “I’m getting — possessive best friend with a staring problem from that. Not — not whatever you said.”

“Uh,” Sam says, “I saw him check you out every time you took your shirt off for like six whole summers. Anyway. You’re a good looking guy, Dean, and you’re funny and Interesting and you were his best friend — why _wouldn’t_ he have fallen in love with you? I get that you could probably reason yourself to a different answer, but why wouldn’t it be the most obvious one?”

Sometimes, when Sam talks it all sounds plausible. It all sounds possible. It sounds like it could be the most obvious answer.

And then he thinks about standing outside that swanky bar, with Castiel looking at him in the moment before he hugged him and how much Dean wanted to kiss him.

“I asked him.” 

“What?” 

“Not in those words,” Dean says, “I mean. I, uh. I asked if he was into me after he came out, and he — went off on me about being , you know, heteronormative and insensitive; the usual crap.”

“Well,” Sam says, “It was kind of a dick move to make his coming out about you, even if Cas didn’t realise what you were actually saying.” 

“Believe me, Sammy, I know that,” Dean says, “And I get why he chewed me out.” 

“But,” Sam says, “Why didn’t you correct him?”

“He was so pissed at me and so —- so sure that I was this, this straight, insensitive, girl chasing douchebag, that I figured — that was my answer. That he really did think I was this shallow, cheap white trash just like I was always scared he thought and that — that I could never be anything else, and that … that he was friends with me ‘cause it was convenient, but that when something better came along he’d…. Don’t, Sammy. You know I didn't wind up thinking Alastair was a good idea because I had stellar self esteem. I get that I was— wrong, and an idiot, about a lot of things, but, uh. Guess I’m tryin’ to square stuff up with reality, rather than my internal bullshit.”

“Okay.”

“And you’re, you know, external to my internal bullshit, so your view on this might be more reliable than the shit I believed in my head, but I need —- I need you to be straight with me.”

“Of course, Dean,” Sam says, “Look, we never talked about any of this stuff. It’s not like Cas ever _said_ anything, but I was always pretty sure about it.”

“Okay,” Dean exhales, “Well.”

“I haven’t actually seen him since I was a teenager, so I can’t say anything about now,” Sam says, “But, I’m more interested in what you’re going to do about it.”

“Do about it?” Dean asks, mouth dry, “Not gonna _do anything_.”

“Dean.” 

“He’s,” Dean begins, “His dad just died, Sammy. We — we’ve barely spoken. I —- I don’t wanna lose him.”

“You don’t _have him_ ,” Sam says, “Dean, this — seeing him for a coffee every couple of months to have awkward, stilted conversations about your jobs isn’t what you miss.”

Dean makes a noise at the back of his throat.

“So just saying, hypothetically, he was staring and he is into you, you’re not going to do anything?” Sam asks, raising an eyebrow with that I’m-college-educated smug-look that’s always driven him absolutely crazy. He _hates_ it when Sam pulls the superior shtick. 

“What do you _want_ me to do?”

“ _Go for it,_ finally.” 

“Sam. I don’t even know if I can _be_ in a relationship.”

“Why?”

“You know fucking why,” Dean says, “Damnit, Sam, I’m not a goddam walk in the park. I’m hard work. Not exactly fair, lumping that on another person and expect them to deal with it.”

“Dean,” Sam says, “I’m… if this was a couple of years ago, okay, maybe it wouldn’t have been a good idea, but not because you’re ‘hard work’ you were just —- vulnerable.” 

Dean makes a frustrated noise at the back of his throat at the word, because he hates it. It’s not like it wasn’t true. Hell, he ended up on Alastair's radar in the first place because he was vulnerable with a give 'em hell attitude and no self preservation, which made him painfully easy to manipulate. He knows that. He’s talked back through all of that, because it was all tied up in guilt and shame and self-hatred, but one day that cleared. Not completely . Not entirely. Just enough for him to see the rest of it through the clouds: Sam and Bobby, his work, life. 

“You’re not _broken_ , Dean, and I wish you’d stop acting like ---” 

“--- I’m not _broken_?” Dean demands, standing up for something to do with the sudden wave of anger and frustration. “Sam, I am _broken_ in ways I can’t even explain to you. This kind of crazy doesn’t just _wash off_. Just because you want me to have some hallmark happy ending, doesn’t mean that I can magic away years of my life.”

“Not talking about magic here, Dean,”

“Yeah? Then what the hell are you talking about?”

“I don’t know, Dean, hard work. Therapy. Communication. Everything you’ve been doing the past three years of your life,” Sam says, “Dean, you’re doing _great_.”

“I’m _held together with fucking tape, Sammy_. I’m a mess.”

“No you’re not,” Sam says, “You’re not a _mess_ , Dean. You’re a human being who went through some stuff ---”

“--- I _went through some stuff_?” Dean demands, balling his hands into fists. “You call _that_ ‘going through some stuff’?”

“--- You’re a freakin’ miracle, Dean,” Sam says, “I’m serious. You are doing _so well_ , and you know that, and the only reason you’re yelling about this is because you _want_ to do something about this Cas situation.”

“ _I don’t even know if there is a Cas situation_.”

“People don’t process trauma until they’re happy, Dean. They bottle it up to work through when things get good.” Sam says, like Dean couldn’t write the freaking book on dealing with trauma. It’s patronising as hell, having Sam tell him how _healing_ goddamn works. “Maybe _this_ , a relationship, _if Cas is interested_ ,” Sam adds with an eye roll, “Maybe this is your next step to heal.”

“My next step to heal? What is this, Oprah?”

“Well, they do say the only way to fix a broken heart is to love again.”

“Alastair didn’t break my heart,” Dean throws back, “He broke two of my ribs and three of my fingers, but my heart is a-okay.” 

“You know that’s not funny.” Sam says, but he’s sort of smiling. 

“Dark humour’s all I’ve got, Sammy.”

“Right,” Sam says, shaking his head, “Dean, I’m not saying it would be _easy_ , okay? But I’m not okay with you setting limitations on yourself. Especially not about this. Date Cas, don’t date Cas. Just. don’t --- hold yourself ransom.”

“Sam,” Dean says, through the lump in his throat. “I’ve gotta be realistic.” 

“There’s a difference between realistic and defeatist,” Sam says, “And, I really think Cas would be great for you.”

“Don’t talk like it’s a dead cert, Sam,” Dean says, slumping back down on his sofa and exhaling. “I…. _can’t_.” Suddenly, he’s exhausted. The kind of bone deep weariness that makes him want to sleep for a very long time and the kind that makes it all seem pointless, again, because... 

Cas hasn’t even spoken to him since that coffee. Dean’s the one who bordered on flirting with him at that damn bar, like some total fucking idiot. He didn’t even have the _alcohol_ excuse. He just sat there and called him cute in the kinda place he couldn’t even afford a round of drinks, while Cas casually wracked up a tab with corporate friends. Cas doesn’t _know_ a damn thing about Alastair, or the ten percent of that that’s Dean’s fault. He doesn’t know why Dean didn’t come to his wedding or that Dean’s been hopelessly pining for him since he was kid. Cas _doesn’t know_ any of this stuff and Dean… he _can’t_ just put this on the guy, after twenty years. 

He was twelve when he met Castiel Milton. He’s known him for twenty years. Except, of course, he hasn’t.

_And he really wants to goddamn kiss him_. 

“Okay,” Sam says, “I won’t talk about it like that.”

“In fact, conversation over,” Dean says, rubbing the back of his neck and reconsidering the picking-his-liver course of action. He tabled it before, but he should probably spend some more time considering the merits of it all. “I done. Don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

“You bought it up.” 

“And I’m putting it down.” 

“Okay,” Sam repeats, “Then I guess --- I should get going.”

“Okay,” Dean says, and he spends the rest of the evening thinking about Cas and how infuriating it is that after all this time, and everything that’s changed, he still winds up feeling like a seventeen year old kid with a crush.

*

Four days later, Castiel texts him to invite him and Sam on a two week vacation to the beach house. 

He says yes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hola, once again, this wasn't really intended to happen... but this just feels like the kind of year for this kind of story. A little slow and a little sad, but a bit hopeful. This will be a mix of different pieces on this timeline. 
> 
> Sidenote: I'm taking annual leave this week, but we're on national lockdown again (to be fair, where I live we had six weeks of not lockdown since March, so there we go). This leaves me alone in my house with my cat and I am taking this as an opportunity to celebrate a recent Supernatural spoiler I read, to relive all of Destiel's greatest hits. I have a spreadsheet. I've just started the best episodes from season 9, then I'm finally going to catch up on beyond season 12. Me and the cat are having a GREAT time.


	2. Two Apartments & New York

Castiel has been renting this apartment for just over four years, ever since New York started to feel like it was closing in on him and he needed to create some space between himself and all of his various mistakes. At the time, several people he’d asked why he didn’t just buy the place (even after all his financial disaster, he could have sufficient capital and wage to secure a mortgage), but that felt _too permanent_ ; too much like a concession to living alone in another lonely city. He does _like_ this apartment, though, with it’s high ceilings, big open rooms and a beautiful kitchen that he never uses. It’s large enough to fit four of the Beach House bedrooms in his room and he has an unnecessary amount of bathrooms for a man who lives alone and rarely has guests. It’s light, with large windows and a satisfying layout.

And yet, he has spent very little time here. 

The request to transfer offices was seen very much as a demotion to most of his peers, despite the fact that he hasn’t actually changed rank (when he told him, Crowley fixed him with this look that said _’I have no idea who you are'_ which was the absolute best thing to clinch his decision). It was an _unexpected_ move, but…. 

Three days after he moved in, his divorce became final. He looked at the high ceilings and his spacious bedroom and allowed himself to think, for the first time, that he was relatively sure Dean Winchester lived within a two hour drive of his apartment. After two glasses of scotch and walking the perimeter of his apartment twice, he pulled out his phone and dialled his number. 

_Number no longer in use_. 

He’d known that was likely --- he’d attempt to call him on Dean’s birthday and got the same message --- but it still turned his lungs to cement. He’d sat there for another twenty minutes, just trying to breathe and thinking about how much he wanted to talk to Dean, even if he’d just give him a hard time about how he’d be right, about everything. He’s never enjoyed Dean zeroing in on his mistakes, but right now how he’d rather be hammered by Dean for his stupidity than to continue to sit there alone. 

A week and a half later, he emailed Sam and asked him vaguely about his family and Sam told him that John Winchester was dead. He didn’t mention Dean at all. 

After two weeks at the Beach House with Dean, Castiel’s apartment feels something akin to a black hole: gaping, empty, hungry. The high ceilings feel like they have the ability to swallow him whole and the loneliness has teeth. The last few days of juggling all the additional members of his family --- Gabriel, Anna, Samandriel --- left him bone weary and very sure that he wanted to spend some time alone, but _now he is alone_ he’d give anything to be back at the Beach House with people who care about him. 

He supposes he knows why Dean changed his phone number, now. If Dean was tangentially involved in some _’sketchy stuff’_ due to Alastair, he probably didn’t want anyone to contact him. He probably didn’t want anyone to _find him_. He did it for his safety. 

It was very prideful of Castiel to assume that any of Dean’s decisions were about Castiel. He was just a consequence. 

_Did you get home safe?_ Castiel texts Dean, after looking at the walls of his apartment for long enough that he’d be concerned if he was a bystander. He has spent even less time here than normal since his father died, instead opting for more time flying out to New York, working steadily later hours or sitting in coffee shops to avoid the inevitability of thought. 

Yesterday, Dean suggested they change the plan and push back their Tuesday date until Wednesday in order to do things like laundry and buy food and, perhaps, process, which was sensible and probably a good idea. Gabriel is exhausting at the best of times and Dean hasn’t had to deal with him for years. By the time they added in Samandriel, Anna and their shared grief, it’s no wonder that Dean wants some time to de-Milton. Castiel hasn’t exactly been a ray of sunshine over the past few days, either, and Dean spent part of the preceding week holding Castiel together as he steadily fell apart and the other reliving some serious psychological trauma for Castiel’s benefit. 

Dean has been… incredible. 

Dean is incredible. 

_Yup, home_ Dean replies, twenty minutes later. _Could sleep for a damn week, but I’m good. You okay?_

Castiel suspects the answer is no, but it’s much easier to lie to Dean over text than it is face to face. 

* 

On Wednesday morning, Castiel sleeps in and then decides to tackle his laundry. 

He hasn’t actually _done_ his own laundry since he was in college, but he has a strong suspicion about the _look_ Dean would give him if he knew he sent it out for someone else to deal with it. The _baby in a trench coat_ look and that familiar disdain of _rich people_ that Castiel has never been able to refute properly, because it _is_ absurd that he is a grown ass man who can’t handle basic household chores, compared to _Dean_ who has looked after himself and Sam since he was a kid. Besides, given that Castiel no longer has a job, or an income, he no longer has the excuse that doesn’t have enough time or energy. 

Castiel has plenty of time. 

Except, the machines in the laundry room in his building are completely different to the ones he used at college, and Castiel can’t remember what any of the buttons mean. He _knows_ this is simple, but that doesn’t mean he knows what the hell he’s doing, which is how he ends up watching videos about how to use washing machines on youtube. 

Now that they’re romantically involved, would Dean find this endearing? 

He doesn’t _know_ , and… everything that had felt so _right_ and _simple_ at the Beach House feels slightly jarring sat on the floor of the laundry room squinting at a video of a woman giving tips about what temperature to wash his clothes at. Dean is as awe inspiring and devastating as ever, with his easy charm, those smiles, and remarkable candidness about his insecurities and his pain. He is mature and lovely and _interested in Castiel_ \--- an unemployed thirty two year old who is googling how to wash his own underwear --- which was easy to believe when Dean was _looking at him like that_ in the Beach House, where they grew up together and cemented their friendship, and much harder to comprehend now he’s alone. 

They slept together. He _slept_ with Dean Winchester. He hadn’t really considered the notion that Dean might be interested in men since he was fourteen, when it felt _plausible_ and very tempting to believe. But... Dean lay next to him in bed and said _’damn that was good sex’_ , naked and glorious, and he kissed him on their deckchairs and asked him on date. Dean called him his _boyfriend_ and got all gooey-eyed over a mug that Castiel painted when he was seven years old. 

Boyfriend. 

Castiel shuts down the youtube woman talking about laundry and pulls up Dean’s number. He types out _did you get your laundry done?_ and sends it, because it feels more appropriate for a spontaneous middle-of-the day message than _I love you_. 

Halfway through his second load of laundry, Gabriel calls him. 

“What?” Castiel asks, staring down the tumble dryer in the hope that it will suddenly make things clearer (his first load of laundry is still damp. It is very warm, but it is damp, and he was just reading an article on mumsnet about the perfect length of time to tumble dry shirts when Gabriel rang). 

“Hello to you too, little brother.” 

“Yes, hello,” Castiel says, “What do you want?” 

“Just checking in, Cassie,” Gabriel says, “What’s up?” 

“An adverb to mean ‘towards a higher place or position’.” 

“Huh. Someone’s cranky.” 

“I’m doing laundry,” Castiel deadpans, decisively jabbing at a button on the dryer that he _thinks_ gives him another thirty minutes of drying. If he ruins it, he can just buy new things and he is impatient and frustrated with his feelings and it’s probably his laundry’s fault. 

“Uh, why?” Gabriel asks. “Pretty sure you can pay for someone to do that for you.” 

“Gabriel, I am _unemployed_.” 

“Riiiightt,” Gabriel says, “You’re sticking with that, then.” 

“I quit.” 

“Oh yeah, I know buddy. Crowley told me all about it.” 

“Must you discuss me with my ex-husband?” 

“You could talk to me yourself,” Gabriel says, “Instead of pulling this silent hermit routine.” 

“I am not a hermit.” 

“Cassie, we’re worried about you,” Gabriel says, “Just check in every now and then, okay?” 

“Allright.” 

“Thought you’d have moved into Dean’s place by now, anyway.” 

“Dean is not unemployed.” 

“You going over there later?” 

“Yes,” Castiel says, “We’re going to eat pizza and watch Doctor Sexy.” He is not unaccustomed to Gabriel laughing at him, but it hasn’t become any less irritating over the last thirty two years of his life. “Gabriel.” 

“As adorable as all this is,” Gabriel says, “I wanted to talk to you about Dean.” 

This is… unsurprising. Gabriel had cornered him at least twice in their final days at the Beach House, with that serious glint that indicated that he wanted to have an actual conversation. Castiel isn’t naive, either, he is aware that he’s shown a tendency towards poor romantic decisions and a distinct lack of self preservation when it comes to Dean Winchester, but he doesn’t want to talk about it yet. He doesn’t want Gabriel to ask him if _he’s sure_ when right now he feels remarkably unsure about anything and where kissing Dean in the sea feels more like a hallucinogenic-dream than his reality. 

He’ll feel better after he’s seen Dean tonight. He’ll feel better when he has a plan for the rest of his life. He’ll feel better when the claggy grief of losing his father stops flooring him so many times a day. 

“I’m very busy doing my laundry right now.” 

“You can’t avoid talking to me forever, bro.” 

“This is an intriguing challenge.” 

“Allright, fine, I’ll call later,” Gabriel says, “Just remember to separate your lights and darks, Cassie. I’ve heard segregation is a key part of the laundering process.” 

“I am not an imbecile, Gabriel,” Castiel retorts sharply, “I know how to do laundry.” 

Bizarrely, he doesn’t feel much better after Gabriel has hung up. 

* 

Dean calls him a little after he’s gotten back from the grocery store with more groceries than he’s owned for a long time, with a strong representation of all the food he remembers Dean liking: red meat, beer, bacon. He isn’t really sure how much time Dean will spend at _Castiel’s apartment_ because they have yet to discuss that and it’s infinitely less practical for Dean’s place of work, but still… preparing for the presence of another person has made him feel slightly better. He suspects his apartment isn’t really Dean’s kind of space, but he still wants to see him in it. He _wants_ to cook Dean food in his nice kitchen and bring him coffee in bed. He wants to kiss him on the sofa and stop feeling like this. 

“Hey,” Dean says, and he sounds… off. Tired. Reluctant. “Look,” 

“You’re cancelling,” Castiel frowns, because he knows that voice. He knows _Dean_ , even this new version of Dean that wants to kiss him and has this whole wealth of personal history and growth that Castiel doesn’t understand. He still _knows_ him. 

“Sorry, man,” Dean says, “Just feel like crap. Not gonna be good company.” 

Castiel hasn’t spoken to another human being (bar the cashier at the shop) face to face since he said goodbye to Dean at the Beach House. His standard for ‘good company’ at this point is very low, but pointing that out doesn’t feel appropriate given it’s clear Dean’s already made up his mind. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Just --- headache,” Dean says, “Haven’t left work yet, and I just wanna sleep.” 

Castiel knows Dean very well. He knows the grades he got in middle school, the name of his first girlfriend, exactly how he likes his coffee and he knows, with absolute certainty, when Dean is lying to him. 

And… he knows enough to fill in the gap with the most likely explanation. He is very confident that _headache_ means _panic attack_ or _other trauma hangover_ , because he knows how Dean operates. 

And Dean doesn’t want him there. 

“Allright,” Castiel says, facing down his empty kitchen and the groceries that he doesn’t feel like eating alone. 

“So, tomorrow, okay?” Dean asks, “We’ll hang out tomorrow.” 

“Yes,” Castiel says, “Tomorrow.” 

* 

On Thursday morning, Castiel spends thirty minutes looking at the view from his kitchen while he drinks his first coffee of the day, trying not to think about the great expanse of day there is left until Dean finishes work, if Dean doesn’t cancel on him again. 

That thought isn’t fair, Castiel decides as he washes up his coffee-mug and puts it back in the cupboard, because Dean lying to him about being affected by his trauma isn’t unreasonable. He cannot _imagine_ how difficult it must have been for Dean to spill his soul to Castiel at the Beach House and…. And, yes, they’ve known each other for twenty years, but they _also haven’t_. 

While Castiel was losing millions in inane lawsuits due to his personal vendettas and a collection of his worst mistakes, Dean was being sliced open by some deranged psychopath. While Castiel was marinating in his anger about Dean’s perceived betrayal on his wedding day, Dean had a broken jaw which he described as _not that bad_. A man cut the word ‘worthless’ into Dean’s skin while Castiel wasted his life and his privilege on something so petty and small that he’s embarrassed to think about it. 

At eleven AM, Castiel can’t stand it anymore and he turns on his laptop for something to distract himself with and --- 

\--- And Crowley is suing him for breach of contract. 

* 

By that time that Dean calls, Castiel is so engrossed in legal paperwork that Dean’s voice is jarring and unexpected. He’d been waiting for someone in the New York office to call him for the last two hours, so he answers in full _business-mode_ before Dean’s voice cuts into his headspace. 

“Well hello to you too, Cas,” Dean says. 

“Dean,” 

“You expecting someone else?” Dean asks. 

“I --- yes,” Castiel says, setting down the copy of the bylaws that his assistant printed off an hour or so ago and reaching for his coffee. It’s cold, which indicates that he’s been here for much longer than he realised. And ---- yes, it’s nearly six. He’s not entirely clear how that happened. “Hello, Dean.” 

“So, you heading over here?” Dean asks and --- 

Castiel is already doing a very bad job of being Dean’s _boyfriend_. 

“I have to go into work,” Castiel returns, pained. 

“Uh. Call me crazy, Cas, but didn’t you quit?” 

“Yes,” Castiel says, setting down his cold coffee and trying to ease the tension out of his forehead, “Yes. However, in the middle of my dramatic-exit, I failed to consider such things as my buy-in- agreement, or the partnership agreement, or my non-compete, and—” 

“Cas. Human speak.” 

“I have paid somewhere in the region of three hundred thousand dollars to have an equity share of their profits,” Castiel begins, which is a mistake. He _knows_ Dean’s feeling about him having money and talking about it is only likely to make Dean more irritated with him, not less. If he’d spent less of the last seven hours reading litigation paperwork, he’d _know_ to pitch this conversation carefully. “And —- it doesn’t matter, Dean, but they can make my life difficult, and currently I am fifty fifty about whether my claim that they were breaking their own employment regulations by refusing my leave is any more valid than their claim that by failing to work adequate notice that I have breached my partnership agreement.” 

“Three hundred thousand dollars,” Dean repeats, which means the damage is already done. He shouldn’t forget what a sensitive topic _money_ is around Dean and --- 

Alastair was a loan shark. Dean compromised his personal safety due to his _pride_ , while Castiel lived in a seven-thousand-dollar-a-month rental apartment. It’s not unreasonable for Dean to have hang-ups about money. On the other side of that revelation, Castiel has plenty of reservations about the content of his bank account. 

“Dean,” Cas says, “I don’t want to talk about money right now. I am just trying to explain why I cannot come over, which would be considerably preferable to debating contract law with my ex-husband.” 

Apparently, Castiel is _on a roll_. 

“Okay, we have _got_ to talk about that at some point but, okay, you have to go to work —- but right now?” 

“No,” Castiel says, “In the morning. In New York.” 

“In—- in New York?” Dean repeats, “Cas. You haven’t lived in New York for years.” 

There are a lot of things they don’t know about each other. 

“Yes. My primary office is here, but my secondary office is there, and I have to meet with the managing partner to discuss things and —-” 

“What time in the morning?” 

“I am getting the first flight at six am,” Castiel says, “Your apartment is ---” 

“A long drive from the airport,” Dean exhales. He’s disappointed. They have been dating for less than two weeks and he is already doing a terrible job of it, but… The sooner he gets this _dealt with_ the sooner it will be done. “Yeah, I get it. So you’re standing me up.” 

Part of him wants to remind him that _Dean stood him up_ first, but that’s not fair. Dean’s reason was much better than Castiel’s, even if he wasn’t honest about it. 

“Dean, they’re _suing me_.” 

“So I’m guessing this is why you’ve been radio-silence.” 

“What?” 

“I text you four hours ago, Cas,” 

“Oh,” Castiel says, frowning at his office. “I didn’t…” 

“Awesome,” Dean sighs, “When are you back?” 

“Saturday.” 

“Saturday,” Dean repeats. “Fine. See you Saturday.” 

“Dean,” Castiel begins, and he means to say _this isn’t intentional_ or that he’s sorry that he got swept up in another pissing match with his company, or to explain how they are trying to get him to work a full three months notice and the thought of spending three more months in _that place_ makes him feel like he’s about to explode, but then his assistant knocks on the door of his office. “Mirabel,” Castiel says, looking up from his cell to tilt her head at her. 

“Crowley’s on the phone for you, Castiel.” 

“You’re --- you’re at work right now,” Dean says, “Awesome.” 

“I --- two minutes,” Castiel says to his assistant, who nods once and then heads back out the door. “Dean, I just need to ---” 

“-- fine. Whatever. Just give a guy a little warning, next time.” 

“Dean, there won't _be_ a next time. I have quit.” 

“Sure,” Dean says, “You’ve quit. How’s that working out for you?” 

“Dean,” Castiel implores. “I need to handle this.” 

“Allright,” Dean says, “Go. Handle it.” 

Of all the evenings he has spent alone in his apartment this week , Thursday is the worst. 

* 

Less than a week ago, Dean held Castiel’s hand on the beach and tried to distract him while he was reading. He stayed up and watched that documentary about bees for the however many hundredth time in their lives and he called Castiel his boyfriend. 

Castiel tries to focus on _those things_ as he drinks his airport coffee but --- 

\-- but mostly, he thinks about Alastair. 

* 

He meets Gabriel for lunch, because it avoids a frustrating conversation later down the line where he inevitably finds out he was in New York and demands to know why Castiel is ‘avoiding him’. At the very least, quitting his job will at least give Gabriel one less avenue in which to _spy on him_ , even if quitting hasn’t entirely stuck yet. He was naive to think it would take nothing more than a letter of resignation and an email, but he wasn’t exactly thinking very clearly at the time. 

“Get on with it,” Castiel says, after Gabriel fixes him with _that look_. 

“So,” Gabriel says, sipping on a very pink drink and raising an eyebrow at him. “You and Dean, huh?” 

“Yes.” 

“So, you talked.” 

“Yes.” Castiel returns, even though he knows that his brother is expecting him to offer up more than a one word answer due to the delusional belief that this is any of his business. Gabriel has been good to him in the past year or so, yes, but Castiel is unaware of any contractual obligations of talking about his feelings. 

“And he’s _not straight._ ” 

“Apparently,” Castiel says. 

“So, you talked about him not showing up at your wedding?” 

“Yes.” 

“And he had a good reason.” 

“Yes.” 

“And you’d have forgiven him if he hadn’t.” 

“Yes.” Castiel says, because it’s true. He would have forgiven the Dean Winchester who confessed he used to have feelings for him on the beach anything, regardless of the reason. As it happens, Dean’s reason is earth shattering and compelling and he doubts even Gabriel would hold it against him, not that Castiel would ever explain it to him. 

“Well, at least you’re self-aware,” Gabriel says with an eye roll. 

“Gabriel,” Castiel says, looking up from his lunch. He’s felt tired all day. He’s felt tired for months. Grief _makes him tired_ and he doesn’t want to be grieving anymore, but it doesn’t go away. “Am I doing the right thing?” 

“With Dean? Cause I gotta say, Cassie. If you’re getting buyers' regret after less than two weeks then, damn, ken doll must be bad in bed.” 

“There is _nothing_ wrong with Dean’s sexual performance.” 

“Huh, so there’s something _else_ wrong with Winchester.” 

“Gabriel, there is _nothing wrong with Dean_.” 

“Then why the fuck are you here?” Gabriel asks, aggressively mixing his drink with his straw and raising an eyebrow at him. 

“That has nothing to do with Dean,” Castiel says irritably, “Gabriel, the firm is ---” 

“--- yeah, yeah, they’re suing you. Non-competes. Partnership buy-ins. Yada-yada. So, tell me, how was pizza and Doctor Sexy?” 

“Gabriel.” 

“Bingo,” Gabriel says. 

“Gabriel, I am asking if I am doing the right thing by _quitting my job_. I’m not asking for your opinion on my relationship.” 

“Cassie, I don’t give a damn who pays your pay cheque,” Gabriel says, “Quit your job, don’t quit your job. The only damn thing I care about is you keeping that stick out of your ass and actually being happy, for the first time in your damn life. So whatever midlife crisis you’re having about _Dean_ , will you please get over it?” 

“I am statistically unlikely to be in the middle of my life yet.” 

“Cassie,” Gabriel says, fixing him with his most serious look in his arsenal. “Deal with your crap.” 

Gabriel is rarely elegant, but he does, occasionally, give good advice. 

* 

Dean’s apartment is all warm browns, comfortable leather furniture and full of so many _Dean-isms_ that it feels familiar, even though he’s never been here before. 

It’s… well, it’s a little strange. He’s theoretically dating the man, but Castiel has never seen his apartment. They’ve been on a single date and haven’t really spoken for years, yet they picked up right where they left off, then skipped right over into commitment and love declarations. They didn’t get into the practical side of what that actually looked like and… and maybe that’s why Castiel feels so wrong-footed by everything. 

“Hey,” Dean says, stepping back to let Castiel in and half smiling at him. Thinking about how fast and slow this is all at once has thrown him off balance, but at least Dean doesn’t look angry at him. He’d half expected a cold reception, even if Dean didn’t _sound_ irritated in the messages they’ve exchanged at various points in the last few days. 

“I come bearing pizza.” Castiel says, holding the box aloft. Pizza seemed like insufficient atonement for his recent behaviour, but it is at least _something_ and Dean’s half-smile widens into something almost genuine. 

“Awesome,” Dean says, “How was New York?” It’s deliberately non-antagonistic, which means Dean is making a great effort not to fight with him. Castiel isn’t really sure how he feels about that. 

“Fine.” Castiel says, setting down the box on the side and not really looking at him. 

“Castiel,” Dean says, and Castiel sighs, and then Dean steps forward and hugs him, close, and some of the world rights itself again. He steps back only to kiss him and… and Castiel wraps his arms around him, and it all makes sense again. 

_This is what he wanted._ This, at least, makes sense. 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Castiel says, when Dean pulls away and _looks at him_. 

“Okay then,” Dean says, grabbing the pizza and a couple of beers from the fridge and heading to the sofa. Castiel presumes that he’s meant to follow him and is rewarded for his instinct by Dean leaving just enough room for Castiel on the sofa so that he’s sat next to him, but sat gratifyingly close to Dean’s sphere of warmth. Dean has a _boxset_ of Doctor Sexy, because he is _Dean_ and he is charming and endearing, and the disc is already in the machine (and Castiel tries not to dwell on that, because he still feels some residual guilt for cancelling on Thursday). He passes Castiel an open beer, rests the pizza over their knees and throws an arm over Castiel’s shoulders like they’ve been doing this for years. 

He’s known Dean since he was twelve and there were a few, exceptional years where Dean made him feel _normal_. After years of struggling to fulfil Naomi’s expectations, impress his father, to fit in and be seen, while feeling more _different_ with every passing year, Dean just liked him. It was uncomplicated. Dean would come to the Beach House and _spend time with Castiel._ Dean laughed at his jokes. Dean teased him and defended him and listened to him. Dean _came to him_ with his secret insecurities and his pain, like Castiel had the power to lesson his hurts. 

And then Dean _started to date_. Cindy Harris. There was this uncomfortable, twisted sadness whenever Dean sat with her at lunch, inviting Castiel with this causal voice that made Castiel’s lungs constrict and a spark of irritation flare up in his gut. He was irritable and harsh and he didn’t really know why. Objectively, he knew there was nothing particularly horrible about Cindy Harris and there was nothing particularly surprising about Dean dating --- Dean always had an ability to get people to like him --- but he still hated it. He _hated it_ and… his equilibrium was thrown off. 

It didn’t take him very long to pinpoint exactly _why_ it bothered him and then everything started to splinter and hurt. _Castiel_ was the one that ruined it by breaking the unwritten rule of their friendship, and he was left feeling like he didn’t fit properly in his own life, or under his own skin. He was _wrong_ , again. Different. Not _normal_. 

He’d naively hoped that it might be better if Dean knew. Not _all of it_ , but at least that he was interested in men. Dean _understood_ him and Dean made him want to be seen, where mostly he’d wanted to fade into the wall. He’d thought…. He’d thought that if he could bring some part of it out into the light, that that disjointed missfit feeling would go away again. He’d thought, maybe, that Dean would say _’that’s cool'_ and shrug it off--- and even if Dean could never _see him like that_ \--- he wouldn’t feel so guilty and uncomfortable about this part of himself. 

Except, Dean didn’t. 

Dean looked at him through those eyelashes and said _so, you into me?_ and --- Castiel felt _too seen_ and _judged_ and like his soul would never fit properly in his body ever again, and the frustration and anger and disappointment spilled over into a splurge of unfounded accusations and some legitimate grievances, and nothing was ever the same again. 

Now, Dean is eating his meat feast pizza with a beer wedged between his thighs and his hand on Castiel’s knee. Not twenty minutes ago, Dean kissed him in the kitchen. 

It’s _fast_ and _achingly slow_ and confusing. 

“Cas,” Dean says, hitting pause halfway through the pizza, “Look, man, I get not wanting to talk about it. I wrote the book on not talking about it, but you look _fucking miserable_ and I gotta ask. What ---- what happened in New York?” 

Of all the things they could talk about, this is the easiest conversation. 

“It was --- bad,” Castiel says, “We are… in negotiations.” 

“About your money.” 

“About my notice period,” 

“Your --- notice period,” Dean says, “Huh. You really did just up and quit two weeks ago on a whim.” 

“Yes, I did.” 

“So, what’s the sentence?” 

“They want me to work three months.” 

“ _Three months_? Jesh.” Dean says. 

“ It’s — won’t be when we’ve finished. They are being deliberately obtuse. So far, all that they have done is offered to remove my non-compete, which is — ridiculous, given it only applies in New York and I have made it very clear that I do not want to work there and that I do not want to practice law, at all. They know that I am illogical when I am angry. They’re bating me.” 

“And by _they_ you mean…” 

“Crowley.” 

“Your ex-husband.” 

“Yes, my ex-husband.” 

“So, a good time all round.” 

“Yes,” Castiel says, “Dean, I don’t _care_ about New York. It’s not of import. I don’t _want_ to work any notice, but I can tolerate it.” 

“Okay,” Dean says, “This about your Dad?” 

“No,” 

“Then,” Dean says, searching his face, “You --- this about _us_?” 

Castiel frowns at his piece of pizza. 

“Look, Cas, I get it. This is a little weird. We’ve known each other forever, but we don’t know a damn thing about each other’s daily routines,” Dean says, and that’s all true, and it should be reassuring that Dean is voicing some of Castiel’s own misgivings. “But it’s just --- an adjustment.” 

“Dean, I don’t _have_ a daily routine,” Castiel says, “I don’t have a job. I don’t know what I’m doing.” 

“Cas. I know. I get it, okay? And I get why you’re feeling insecure about _this_ , but I —” 

“-- I am not insecure.” Castiel cuts across, even though that’s a lie. He doesn’t really _know why_ he’s protesting otherwise, but it’s suddenly infuriating that Dean can see right through him. 

“Until a couple of weeks ago, you thought I was freaking straight, for fuck’s sake. Least I’ve had some time to think about it.” 

“When? When were you thinking about it?” 

“Pretty much since the funeral,” Dean says, then rubs the back of his neck in a way that’s endearing enough that Castiel wants to reach out and capture his hand. Kiss his knuckles. “That sounds hella insensitive. I don’t mean like that. I didn’t — I wasn’t expecting anything to happen, at all, but — uh. Me and Sam talked about the possibility of you being into me when we were kids, and then after your birthday ---” 

That old feeling of being embarrassed of his own emotions is sparking up in his gut and… _no one_ has ever made him feel like that, except Dean. He _hates it_ when he can’t control his emotional response to anything, and Dean ---- Dean can trigger all of it with the barest gesture, the barest word. 

“I knew I humiliated myself,” Castiel says, staring back down at the half eaten pizza and envisioning Sam and Dean discussing the prospect of Castiel’s _feelings_ and it’s like someone’s turned him inside out, the way Dean always used to make him feel when he was a teenager and --- 

“You didn’t,” Dean counters, “Cas. I was the one acting like a jerk, and it — it doesn’t matter. We’re … we’re together. Whatever happened before, it’s just — it's not as important. Unless. This is what you _want_ right? You haven’t ---” 

“--- Dean, I’m in love with you. That hasn’t changed in the last ten years, or the last three days.” 

“Then what’s the damn problem?” 

“There _isn’t a problem_.” 

“Cas. I know when you’re _lying to my face_ , okay?” 

“That’s _mutual_ , Dean.” 

“Okay, colour me lost,” Dean says, “Talk to me.” 

“Dean, I _am not having a very good week_. Please _back off_.” 

“So we’re back to your job.” 

“I don’t _care_ about my job.” 

“Cas, you just —- you flew out there. You’re getting _sucked back in._ Don’t look like you don’t care.” 

“I am _done,_ Dean. I fully intend to _remove myself from the situation._ ” 

“As long as you get your money back, and you make some point to Crowley, and a hundred other things. Look, Cas. It’s your business. I didn’t _ask_ you to quit your job, but I’m not going to lie about being happy about it. But it aint _important_ compared to this.” 

“You’ve never believed that before.” 

“Yeah, well,” Dean says, “I’ve learned a lot. Plus, I’ve never _kissed you_ before, so my whole world view has shifted.” 

“Spin the bottle.” 

“You know what I mean, Cas,” Dean says, “I —- wasn’t even ambitious enough to want this, so, okay. Battle it out with your ex-husband about your damn money if you goddamn need to, but don’t tell me you don’t care if you _care._ ” 

“Dean,” Castiel says, “I —— I have an obligation to resolve this work situation.” 

“Okay,” Dean exhales, “But did you have to resolve it _this week_?” 

“You _are_ upset with me.” 

“I’m goddamn _confused_.” 

“Yes,” Castiel says, “ _That’s how I feel_. I am --- confused. I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what you _want_ from me. I don’t understand how all this fits together and I don’t understand how I feel, but I know I am being insensitive and unfair and selfish and I can’t just _talk to you_ because _I am being unreasonable._ ”

“Cas.” 

“Dean, you didn’t have a headache. You had a _panic attack_ and you didn’t want me anywhere near it, and then I started to think about that man hurting you,” Castiel says, even though he shouldn’t, because it makes him awful and petty and small. The words are coming out regardless, because he is hopeless at self control when it comes to Dean. “And I _detested it_ and I didn’t know what to do with it, so I worked because it was distracting and I didn’t want to think about it anymore.” 

Dean slows, thinks and stands, stretching out his shoulders and he does so. 

“You want coffee?” 

“I,” Castiel begins, frowns. Stares at him. 

“Look, man. I didn’t expect our little tête-à-tête to be the end of the fucking conversation about Alastair, so let’s talk about it. Just feel like I could use some freaking caffeine if we’re doing this. So, coffee?” 

“Okay.” 

“Look,” Dean says, after he’s made them both coffee and Castiel has stared at the pizza for a long time, feeling oddly unreal. He’s possibly more confused than ever. Dean was angry and now he is making coffee. Castiel is an awful boyfriend and Dean seems remarkably…. calm. “You’re allowed to have feelings about this Alastair crap.” 

And… _that’s not how it works_. He does not get to have feelings about it, because Castiel wasn’t there. He was _busy_ and Dean was hurting and healing and Castiel was ignorant and lonely, and he does not get to fixate on this when Dean told him as part of an apology for something that’s so small he can’t understand how he ever cared. Dean didn’t come to his wedding because _he had a broken jaw_ and Castiel _cut him out_ because of it. 

“Dean,” Castiel says, “It’s _your trauma_.” 

“That’s not how it works, Cas. Trauma’s a freaking earthquake, I’m just the epicentre. Acting like it doesn’t affect you isn’t gonna help anyone. This is heavy duty crap and it’s a _lot_ , on top of a lot of other heavy duty crap you’ve got going on. I --- should’ve figured you’d be a little overwhelmed.” Dean says, pushing the coffee in Castiel’s direction. 

Castiel takes the coffee and stares at him. 

Yes, overwhelmed is a good word. Too much is happening. Dean is _not straight_ and has wanted to kiss him since high school, and he has barbed words cut into his skin by his ex-boyfriend. Castiel is not done with his job even though he wants nothing more to do with it, because there is paperwork and litigation and goodbyes. He knows Dean very well, but he doesn’t know his friends or his routine, or how Castiel is supposed to fit in with any of it. He is _overwhelmed_ and confused and unqualified to deal with any of this. 

“Not exactly how I’d _choose_ to kick start our relationship, but I _had_ to tell you, if we were ever gonna be anything.” 

“Yes,” Castiel says, “Dean, I’m… I’m glad you told me. I didn’t mean—-” 

“But you were thinking about it.” 

“You were hurting, and I didn’t know,” Cas says, “And this was happening _before our fight._ ” 

“It’s — yeah, you need to process.” 

“I don’t _want_ to need to process.” 

“Sorry princess, it doesn't work like that.” Dean says with a grim smile. 

“You don’t ---” Castiel says, “You’re not angry at me.” 

“Awh, fuck Cas,” Dean says, “You can’t keep filling in the blanks about how you think I feel, you’ll drive yourself crazy. No, I’m not freakin’ _angry at you_. Cas, I’m still reeling over you having shitty enough self-esteem to think Crowley was your best goddamn option, I can’t imagine how _you feel_ about me hooking up with Alastair.” 

“But --- you lived it.” 

“Yeah,” Dean says, “Yeah, I lived it. And you know what else I lived? Sam driving himself crazy with guilt and worry, like any of this was his fault. Cas, he knows I borrowed money from the guy to pay for him to get to college. That fucking _gutted him_. I broke that kid’s heart, and I sat with him as he cried and wrestled with trying to forgive me for putting that on him. We worked through it together and it was hard and shitty, but we kept at it.” Dean says, “You’re not a machine. You’re allowed to have feelings about this. Hell, you’re allowed to be angry at me if you want, because I’m not _blameness_. Not a godamn saint, Cas, and I’m not about to fall apart at the seams if you talk about it. I just need you to be honest with me. Don’t freaking run away or act like it’s not happening. Just talk to me and if I can’t talk about it, then we table it till I can, or you talk to someone else. Capiche?” 

Dean always makes things sound simple. He is… incredible. 

“I capiche,” Castiel says. 

“And, for the record,” Dean says, “I didn’t have a panic attack, I had a nightmare, but you’re right. Lying to you was dumb. Should’ve figured you’d see right through me but, uh. This is kinda new, and old, and—- I was feeling a little wrong footed and a little vulnerable and frustrated about my goddamn head, and it just happened.” 

“Yes,” Castiel says, “It’s very confusing.” 

“We have some catching up to do,” Dean says, nudging him with his knee and offering him this smile. “Not just Alastair, but this whole big chunk of our lives. Just do me a favour, Cas. Try not to be so damn hard on yourself.” 

“You call him by name.” 

“Yeah,” Dean says, rolling back his shoulders. “Second therapist’s idea. He’s just a guy. A sadistic sonuvabitch, sure, but still. Naming and shaming makes him smaller. That’s the theory, anyway.” 

“You,” Castiel begins, “You didn’t want me to come over. You don’t want me involved.” 

“Honestly,” Dean says, “No. Not right now. This isn’t… look, I’m a big boy, Cas. I’ve had a lot of time. Not saying that this crap doesn’t affect me, because it does, plenty, but I’m handling it. I’m okay. I’m safe. I’m happy, mostly. A damn good approximation of it, especially about _this._ " Dean says, gesturing at Castiel's proximity on the sofa. "I don’t —- don’t wanna put this on you.” 

“I am not concerned about that.” 

“Yeah, I figured,” Dean says, “But --- that’s how I feel right now. That okay?” 

“Yes,” Castiel says, “They’re your boundaries, Dean. You can set them wherever you want.” 

“Doesn’t mean that’s easy on you, Cas,” Dean says, “But, uh. When I said I haven’t dated, I mean, at all. So I haven’t had these conversations a lot. At least, with people who aren’t being paid to listen to me, so just --- be patient with me, okay?” 

“Of course,” Cas says, looking at his hands for a few long moments, “Dean, I saw Crowley.” 

“Yeah, I figured.” Dean frowns. “There a reason for you bringing this up?” 

“Yes,” Castiel says, “You —- you should be aware that we were sleeping together.” 

“You —- after the divorce?” Dean asks, with a poor attempt at hiding his distaste at the question. Dean’s aversion to Crowley makes more sense with the added colour of jealousy , but he suspects Dean would not have liked him anyway and it feels illogical to bring him up right now. It’s just… he doesn’t want to navigate around the edges of every old sensitive-topic. He doesn’t want to ruin this by accident. He _doesn’t want_ his job, or his money, or his marriage to be more important. 

And Dean still makes him want to _be seen_. 

“Recently.” 

“How recently?” 

“The last time was the week my father died,” Castiel says, “I —- I didn’t want to be alone.” 

Dean exhales. 

“Hell, not like I can begrudge you for that,” Dean says. 

“We had dinner yesterday.” Castiel says, “He didn't think I was serious about handing in my resignation, so I met with him and I told him about _you_ and that our… arrangement was off the cards, permanently. It —- it has been months, anyway, but I —- you should know.” 

“Did you, uh,” Dean begins, dredging up the words, “You have feelings for him?” 

“No,” Castiel says, heavily. He thinks it would be better if the answer was yes, because… Castiel is not proud of how he has lived the last few years of his life. There’s very little of it that would endear him to Dean, and yet _Dean wants him_. “Not for years, but it was —- convenient and I was lonely.” 

“Cas, you know I’m the poster boy for convenient and lonely, right?” Dean asks, thumb suddenly on his knee. Castiel looks at him, because Dean instigating physical contact is unexpected and lovely. “You gave me hell for years of cheap-sex fuelled by convenient and lonely. No judgement here.” 

“I was jealous,” 

“We’re a couple of dumbasses,” Dean says, “You —- you okay?” 

They only got through half an episode of Doctor Sexy and Castiel didn’t pay attention to any of it, but Dean made coffee and told him it’s okay to have feelings and asked him for his patience. He is being remarkably reasonable about everything in the face of Castiel’s splurge of emotions and --- 

It was all so simple at the Beach House, but life is hard and complicated and Castiel is very tired. 

“When I envisioned this,” Castiel says, “Us. I wasn’t — I wasn't this _unemployed,_ directionless mess, Dean, I had my life together.” 

“That’s cause we’re always the damn hero when we tell stories in our head,” Dean says, “But I think walking away for something that’s made you miserable for years _is_ heroic, Cas, I’m proud of you, for being brave enough to do what the hell you want, and to take a fucking chance, ‘stead of towing the line. So what if you haven’t got everything figured out? I’d rather have you, directionless mess or not.” Dean says, looking at him like he means all of it. Like he really did want to kiss him all along. Like he wanted fifteen year old Castiel to be brave enough to say _yes_ when Dean breathed _you into me?_ by the secondhand firelight. 

“You think in my dream land, I was stumbling around this trauma graveyard, trying not to trip over the damn bodies buried in my head? Cas. That’s life. And —- I’m sorry this trip to New York sucked, and I’m sorry I didn’t just tell you about the damn nightmare, I just — I don’t wanna scare you off with my bullshit, when I’ve only just got you. That’s my bad.” 

“I’m sorry for ruining our evening.” 

“Give yourself a damn break, Cas. Your dad just died and this Alastair stuff is brand new, and your freaking ex is suing you in some freak-ish display of pigtail pulling. Just — get over here and let me give you a damn hug.” 

And —— and yes, he wants a hug. He really wants a hug. 

“You’re more tactile than I remember,” Castiel says, after he’s melted into it and they’ve stayed there a while. It feels like it’s defrosting him down to his bones. Dean… Dean thinks this is more important than anything else, and that walking away is brave, and that Castiel is too hard on himself, when sometimes Castiel feels he’s let himself get away with unacceptable behaviour for years. Dean…. Dean is not perfect, but he is incredible, and strong, and wants to hear all the thoughts in Castiel’s head. 

“Well sweetheart, that’s the looser grip on years of repression.” 

He would like Dean to call him sweetheart forever. 

“And the fact that you didn’t get enough hugs as a child.” 

“That’s true for both of us,” Dean counters, smoothing a hand over Castiel’s hair, “Plus, I’ve got seven years of absence to make up for.” 

“Dean,” Castiel exhales, “Is this really happening?” 

“You better believe it, sunshine.” 

And, maybe, with a little more lag time, he might. 

* 

“Dean,” Castiel says, lying in Dean’s bed, in his warm, semi-familiar apartment, with Dean holding him as though he’s wanted to do this for years. He’s tired. He’s tired of grief and expectation and feeling like he took a wrong turning years ago and has never been able to get back on track. He’s tired of living with all his mistakes and he’s a little sad about how much their mistakes cost, and he’s very, very happy that Dean’s bent knee is half wedged between Castiel’s thighs and that he can hear him breathing in and out. He feels safe and loved and unsettled and worn out of emotions and much, much too tired to sleep. “I have been unhappy for a very long time,” He says, into the dark, “And I don’t know how to stop.” 

“Got this vivid memory,” Dean says, intimate and soft and lovelier than Castiel ever imagined it could be when talking to Castiel. “First time I laughed, after I got out,” Dean says, “Cause I was —- broken. Real freaking mess and I… I just didn’t wanna feel anymore. Didn’t wanna think. Didn’t see a future, you know? And then Dad died and I didn’t feel anything. Didn’t have anything left _to feel_ but, uh. Wanted to buried him near our mom, so we were driving and Sammy stopped for gas and —- he stepped over this grate, and he tripped, and he lost his fucking shoe. Down the drain. And I saw his face, and I just starting laughing. His face, Cas. Twenty miles away from our Dad’s bones, and he’s got one freaking shoe. And —- I felt like a human being, again. It snuck up on me. And we went to the funeral with Sam wearing these sneakers he bought from the gas station, and I cried at the funeral, and I didn’t laugh again for another two months. But it happened.” 

Castiel still wishes he was there. The thought of Dean burying his father without him ties his stomach in knots, but he can’t change that. He can’t _fix_ that, but he can listen. Learn all these new truths about Dean. Imagine laughter creeping out of Dean’s chest, spilling out into the air. What a relief that must have been for Sam. 

“You gonna be okay, Cas,” Dean says, into his ear. “Just let it happen. It’ll come.” 

“Dean,” Cas says, twisting in Dean’s arms so that he can look at him, “I shrunk all my laundry.” 

“What?” 

“The youtube woman confused me. I ruined my clothes,” Castiel says, and Dean’s mouth curves into a smile and then he is laughing with his arms still wrapped around him, close enough that Castiel can feel every peel of it vibrate through his chest. He might not have that laugh, but he can have this one and Castiel has _always_ treasured making Dean laugh. It’s even better from this angle. “It was the wrong kind of machine.” 

“You --- you’re something else,” Dean smiles, warm and lovely, “Don’t ever change, Cas.” 

“You think I’m endearing,” Castiel half-preens, running a thumb across the rough of Dean’s cheek and smiling at him in the dark. 

“And some,” Dean says, and kisses him. 


	3. Bed, mostly

“So, no Cas tonight?” Sam asks over their regular Friday night dinner, this time at one of Dean’s favourite steakhouses. It’s an innocent enough question, but it needles slightly which probably means he’s got a lot more complicated feelings about that than he intended to have. It’s not an _unreasonable_ question, given Dean had preemptively half-cancelled then had to backtrack after their second official date got pushed, again. It figures Sam was wondering. It’s not like _Dean_ isn’t damned curious.

“He’s in New York.” 

“Yeah. How come?” 

“Work stuff,” Dean frowns, “He — turns out he really did just up and quit, and now there's — partnership agreements and buy-ins. I got no clue. Had no idea he even flew out there most weeks.” 

“Dean. You haven’t really spoken for years,” Sam says, fixing him with one of those _don’t panic_ looks. 

“Yeah,” Dean says, “And then we didn’t talk about his job. That was always a —- sore topic. Probably still is. I don’t know.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean,” Dean says, “The guy, like. He said his buy-in was something like three hundred thousand dollars. I don’t even know what the fuck that means, but I know that’s more money than I’m gonna earn in my life, and — I don’t really know what to do with that.” 

“Why do you have to do anything with it?” Sam frowns, “Cas —- yeah, Cas has money. That’s kind of his business.” Dean clenches his jaw and looks at his steak. “Dean,” Sam continues, “You can’t really give the guy a hard time for something that’s not even in his control. Yeah, the Miltons have money, and Cas, yeah, Cas probably earned a lot too, but he _just quit_ because he realised the job made him unhappy, so it’s not like that’s his motivation.” 

“Right. Except he’s there right now, trying to, I don’t know, not lose his paycheck.” 

“Yeah, because it’s _his money_ ,” Sam says. “If Bobby didn’t give you your full wage, you wouldn’t let that slide,” Sam says, “And, anyway, Cas isn’t so disconnected to reality that he doesn’t _know_ that’s a lot of money.” 

“So you think that’s just —- fine. That it’s a-okay that the whole freaking lot of them — Michael and Lucifer — are fucking billionaires just cause.” 

“Okay,” Sam says, “Firstly, you’re exaggerating. Millionaires, probably. Secondly, no I _don’t_ think that’s okay, or fair, but I’m pretty sure Castiel is more politically opposed to most of that — generational wealth — than you are, given at college he wrote a cutting critique of the current taxation system for his thesis using his only family as an example for the entrenched class system, and then published part of it in the Stanford university paper to piss off his brothers, and last time there was election I had to remind you six times to register to vote.” 

“What?” Dean says, distracted, “Cas did —- how did you know about this?” 

“I’m friends with Cas, Dean. You’d know that too if you weren’t always so weird about Cas having money.” 

“What’s your point?” 

“Dean,” Sam says, “Cas has always _tried_ to use the fact that he’s —” 

“— stinking rich —” 

“— well off and well connected,” Sam corrects, “To try and do good and compensate for his privilege.” 

“Sam. He put half his damn bank account into litigation action to piss off his brothers.” 

“No,” Sam says, “It was to bring justice to the company that screwed up the drugs that his mother used to take before she died. He dropped it after they offered a settlement — meaning a lot of grieving families got compensation — even though it looks like it cost him his marriage.” Dean makes a noise at the back of this throat. “I just wish that you’d admit that your problem isn’t with some…. screwed up political system that means some people have a head start, it’s because you believe that the fact that you don’t have those things makes you inadequate.” 

“Awesome,” Dean says, blinking at his steak. 

“Dean. Come on. Practically, why does it make a difference how much money Cas in his bank account?” 

“Because, Sammy,” Dean says, “He owns goddamn suits that are worth more than my whole wardrobe, goes to expensive ass bars and — and I don’t need someone to pay for shit.” 

“I’m buying you dinner right now,” Sam bitchfaces. 

“That’s — that’s different,” Dean says, even though he’s fully aware his logic is weak. The whole basis of the ‘Dean cooks one week and Sam buys dinner this next’ is entirely based on the fact that Sam’s the one with the decent paycheck, these days. That and the fact that Sam can’t cook a damn thing that Dean wants to eat, given he’s a health freak that thinks an egg-white omelette is a legitimate item of food. 

“It’s not that different,” Sam says, “But fine. Go Dutch. I’m sure Cas doesn’t care.” 

“He,” Dean begins, scrambling around for his next point. He’s _perturbed_ and unsettled and… Tuesday night was a bad night. He’s spent a lot of the week feeling like every insecurity he’s ever had is trying to suffocate him and he was hoping for a little more sympathy and a little _less_ of his snot-nosed-brother being a pain in the ass. “He stood me up,” Dean says, “To go to goddamn New York and exchange lawsuits with his freaking ex-husband.” 

“Wait, they’re _suing him_?” Sam asks, setting down his cutlery to raise an eyebrow at him. “And you’re throwing a freaking tantrum over it. Wow, Dean. I thought you were seeing him Tuesday, anyway.” 

“Yeah, well, we bumped it to Wednesday.” Dean says, stabbing a fry with his fork. “And, uh. I had a bad night, so.” 

“So _you_ rearranged,” Sam says, “And then stood _him_ up and now you’re being a big baby about what sounds like a legitimate work emergency.” 

“He _quit his job_. How can you have a _legitimate work emergency_ for a job you’ve already quit?” 

“Uh, when they’re trying to withhold a three hundred thousand dollar partnership buy-in because they’re being a massive bag of dicks,” Sam says, “What kind of bad night?” 

“What?” 

“Dean,” Sam says, “Quit the foreplay and tell me what’s _actually_ bothering you.” 

“Least Dr Phil is polite.” 

“By all means, Dean, pay for someone to listen to you whine about your boyfriend instead if you want. I hear you can pay extra for ass-kissing.” 

“Don’t have an appointment till Tuesday.” 

“So, you _are_ going back to weekly therapy?” 

“Sam, I had a freaking panic attack at the Beach House,” Dean says, which has a little of the attitude drop out of Sam’s shoulders and his features twist into something more sympathetic. Dean waves this away, because now he has Sam’s sympathy he doesn’t _really_ want it and… he’s okay. He knew this would be liable to fuck with his head, a bit. He knows that sex is complicated and he is fully intending to have a _lot_ of fucking-a sex in his future, with his bad ass, gorgeous boyfriend. _If_ they ever get round to actually seeing each other again. “It’s fine, Sammy. Precautionary. Just figured it was sensible.” 

Sam nods vaguely, thinking for a moment as he picks up his fork. 

“How did Cas handle that, by the way?” Sam asks, the thought seemingly occurring to him right before he was about to take another bite of his side salad (freak). 

“Shockingly cool,” Dean says, thinking back to Cas saying _you don’t need to explain_ , eating grilled cheese on the porch and watching Star Wars. He was pretty much perfect, in that Cas way of his, curling up against his side and saying _you’ve looked after me all week_ which made accepting help much easier to swallow. “It’s --- everything felt really damn easy at the Beach House.” 

“Dean,” Sam says, “This is bound to feel a little weird, okay? Cas has never even been to your apartment, he doesn’t know your friends, you haven’t actually had all that much communication in the last seven years. It doesn’t mean there’s anything _wrong_ , it just means that it’s easier to fall into a relationship in a place you’ve spent summers together for over a decade where everything is familiar and sentimental, than to slot into _real life_.” 

“So,” Dean says, rolling the words over his tongue, “You think this is… too fast.” 

“Dean, no one whose ever seen the two of you communicate would accuse this of being _fast_. It just --- an adjustment. It’s weirder for Cas.” 

“How do you figure that?” 

“Dean, he _thought you were straight_ like five minutes ago. How long was it between you coming out and him kissing you? What, twenty four hours? I mean, I’m kind of _impressed_ , really. You’ve known for fifteen years and he Cas _still_ made the first move.” 

“Two days,” Dean corrects, narrowing his eyes, “Told him I used to be into him first, though, so don’t go giving Cas all the damn credit.” 

“I’m not,” Sam smiles, “Dean, you know I’m proud of you, and I’m really happy for you guys. This is going to be good, for both of you. Just —- _relax_. What happened on your bad night?” 

“Nightmare,” 

“Flashback?” 

“Honestly,” Dean says, “Got no idea. Might’ve been. Certainly had the right sadistic-hell-bitch quality, but maybe my subconscious is getting creative. Nothing I can’t handle, Sammy.” 

“Alright,” Sam says, fixing him with those _mildly concerned_ eyes. It’s a mark of how far they’ve come with all of this crap that Sam can accept that without pushing further, or without treating Dean to a too-precious-for-this-world-hug. It’s reassuring, actually. “The deal is you tell me about this crap, jerk.” 

“What do you think I’m doing, bitch.” 

“Cut the lag time, okay?” 

“Sam,” Dean says, pushing his empty plate away slightly and turning to look at his little brother. “Much as giving you daily reports on my mental bullshit brings me _real joy_ , I’m pretty sure it’s time to cut back.” 

Dean’s expecting more of a shift in Sam’s expression than he gets. Honestly, he’d been expecting a bit of an argument about it. Some kind of push-back. As much as he was irritated and disappointed about Cas throwing him over to play corporate law, he was glad that it carved out some good quality time with his little brother. They haven’t _actually_ talked properly since the drive to the Beach House. On the way back home, Dean was mostly so saturated from freaking _Gabriel_ and Anna and Samandriel and Cas wandering around like a sad puppy and Dean not really being able to fix anything that he just gave Sam the keys, put on one of John Winchester’s mixtapes and watched America slip by. 

They do _need_ to talk. 

“Cas?” 

“Yes and no,” Dean says, “Don’t get me wrong, not planning on switching the daily-Dean-insanity hour to Cas. For one, pretty sure he’s not ready for the flippant tones or my hilarious Alastair jokes --” 

“-- no one’s ready for that Dean,” Sam cuts in, “Mostly because you’re not actually funny.” 

“--- but I’m pretty sure he’d feel a little weird about me calling you every time I have a freaking nightmare,” Dean says, “Anyway, I’m… I’m _okay_ , Sam. You know that.” 

“Yeah,” Sam says, “I know that.” 

“Look, I’m not cutting you out,” Dean says, “And I’m not hiding my shit, either. We _will_ keep talking about this crap, okay? And if things get bad, you’ll know. Got no intention of keeping important information from you but, uh. Need you to give me a little slack to work out what’s important. To build in some lag times. That okay by you?” 

“Honestly,” Sam says, “I was kinda expecting it for a while.” 

“Just don’t want you worrying about me, Sammy.” Dean says, because… because that was the deal. Sam wouldn’t drive himself fucking crazy with worry, on the provision that Dean dropped the bravado and _told him the truth_ about everything. At that point, Dean would have done just about anything to minimise the shockwaves that all of this crap caused. Plus, he was so mixed up and messed up that he needed --- he needed someone to know everything, his pride be damned. That’s not really the case anymore. He’s an approximation of a fully functioning human, most of the time. He’s okay. 

“I’m not gonna promise that I won’t worry about you,” Sam says, “You’re my brother but, yeah. I trust your judgement Dean. You’re --- it’s not like things were before. Do whatever you need to do.” 

“Okay,” Dean says, clearing his throat to break the moment, because… even if he’s had to get _used to_ this spilling his feelings to little brother stuff, it’s never completely been comfortable. “You want dessert? ‘Cause I could really go for some dessert.” 

“Don’t give Cas a hard time about this money stuff, Dean. He’s been paranoid about it in front of you since he was a kid and it’s _really_ not worth it.” Sam says, fixing him with one of those hard-uncompromising looks that generally means Sam means business. 

“Back to this money crap.” 

“You set it up so he can’t win,” Sam says, “And it’s not fair.” 

“Can we go back to you braiding my hair and telling me I’m special?” Dean asks, “I don’t do jack, Sam.” 

“ _Yes_ , you do. And,” Sam continues, going for another forkful of his fucking salad, “Dean, he studied to be a lawyer for _years_. Quitting is a big deal. Give him some time.” 

“You wanna tell me anymore crap I already know?” 

“Yeah,” Sam says, “You and Cas are going to be fine, as long as you actually get round to seeing each other. And yeah, get dessert, but you’re paying for it yourself, jackass, given you’ve made your opinion about _’people buying you shit’_ clear.” 

And, really, he can’t argue with that. 

* 

It’s a little strange to think that Dean ever used to be _so unhappy_ and self-destructive, broken and splintered, when right now he has _Castiel fucking Milton_ asleep on the other side of his bed. Sure, this version of Cas is a little sad and a lot tired. Last night was heavy and Dean’s under no illusions that they’ve got a lot of difficult things to talk about, but --- 

\--- but right now, Dean’s going to get up and make the guy pancakes. 

He unplugs his phone on the way out of the bedroom, mostly so he can check how many ‘don’t be an asshole’ messages his brother sent him and reply to tell him everything is fine, or an approximation thereof. Sam sends him a thumbs up while Dean’s waiting for the coffee pot and Bobby sends a message asking how many are coming for Sunday-dinner before he actually starts in on the pancakes. 

They didn’t actually get to talking about any of that last night, although Dean kind of _meant_ them too when he started on at that ‘daily routine’ stuff before they slipped into Alastair, New York and fucking _Crowley_. He texts Bobby that he’s not a hundred percent, but that he probably won’t be making an appearance. He’s not all that sure that Cas will be up for the _re-meeting_ the family shtick today. The guy has a lot going on in his head. 

It was a little naive of Dean not to think about that. 

Cas is awake when Dean heads back into the room to deliver coffee, all sleepy and fucking adorable with his bedhead, half propped up on Dean’s pillows. 

“Morning sunshine,” 

“Hello Dean,” 

“How are you doing?” 

“Allright,” Cas says, accepting the coffee with a not-quite-smile. “Dean, I --- I have to go back to New York for some of next week. I’m --- this is temporary.” 

“Dude, are you checking your _work emails_ in bed?” Dean asks, scanning Cas’ sheepish expression. “I’m confiscating your phone.” 

“I _am quitting_.” 

“I know,” Dean says, sitting down on the edge of the bed and holding out his hand. “Cas. Give me the phone.” 

“Dean.” 

“Don’t make me fight you for it, man. Pass it over.” 

“I -- fine,” Castiel says, handing it to him. 

“Awesome,” Dean says, and slides it across the other side of the bed. Apparently, he’s a little too enthusiastic, because it winds up bouncing off the headboard and then hitting the floor with a _clunk_. “Uh, my bad.” 

“Dean,” Cas says, but his expression is closer to amused now. 

“I —- I’m sure it’s fine.” 

“It’s a work phone, Dean.” 

“Then you’ve gotta give it back anyway,” Dean says, “Shows those assholes what you think of them. Can get yourself a new one that only lets you play Candy Crush and sext your boyfriend.” 

“Why candy crush?” 

“Cause you’re unemployed,” Dean says, “Gotta do something with your day.” 

“Right,” Castiel says, actually smiling now and, fuck, it feels good to win one of those smiles. “As long as I have a plan.” 

“Got your back, Buddy.” 

“And my phone,” Cas says, taking a sip of his coffee. “Please don’t call me _Buddy_.” 

“Noted,” Dean says, “Was gonna kiss you before I totalled your phone.” 

“I would be amenable to this.” 

“Awesome,” Dean says and leans forward to kiss him and, god, he’s never going to get enough of this. Of Cas being _amenable_ to Dean kissing him in the morning, of the world feeling light and uncomplicated, even though it isn’t. It’s —— a month ago, he was sure he could never have this. That Cas didn’t want it and, even if he did, that Dean couldn’t be that person anymore. That he didn’t have the capacity. Right now, he’s pretty sure he’s flipped the switch; the question is more about whether he has the capacity to _give it up_ , if it came down to it. 

“So,” Dean says, “Pancakes?” 

Cas still looks a lot like he’s taken an overdose of emotional bullshit, so Dean cajoles him into staying in bed while Dean cooks in the name of breakfast-in-bed. It’s been a damn long time since he’s been anyone’s boyfriend ( _high school_ level of long time ago), and he’s pretty fucking determined that he’s gonna rock at it. He’s gonna be a kick-ass, breakfast-delivering kinda boyfriend, that brings extra coffee and overloaded plates back to their bed. 

And --- he could pretty much do this forever: lazy sunday mornings in bed, full of pancakes and optimism and coffee, with Cas curled against his side occasionally talking but mostly just breathing together. It’s kinda remarkable how easy it is to fall into closeness and freaking _intimacy_ when most of yesterday morning he was still talking himself down from fixation on Cas’-work-crap. It’s remarkable how little he gives a damn about it when Cas is complimenting his pancakes and smiling at him like Dean’s some kind of miracle. 

He doesn’t _want_ to be distracted by any of that window dressing. He can’t remember why he ever gave a damn. If Cas says he’s quitting, then maybe he’s _actually quitting_ and even if he doesn’t, the fact that he even considered it means the hooks aren’t buried as deep in Cas’ life as they used to be. It’ll all be fine. This is just transitional. 

“You broke your finger,” Cas says, and it knocks Dean out of his train of thought and brings his focus back to the fact that Cas has been distractedly running his fingertips over Dean’s knuckles, palms, the pulse point on his wrist. Dean glances down, where Cas’ attention is currently focused on the little finger on his left hand. 

“Uh, yeah,” Dean exhales. 

“How?” Cas asks, and it’s theoretically an innocuous question and there's no reason that Cas would know --- Dean’s given him some details and he’s seen some of the damage and Dean doesn’t really _want_ him to be obsessively filling in those blanks in his head --- but it’s enough to burst his happy, comfortable bubble with a massive fucking reality check. 

There’s --- there’s _a lot_ that Cas doesn’t know. It’s not the right time to get into all of it. Cas is already freaked by the little he _does_ know, and Dean doesn’t have it in him to go full information-dump. He’d rather not talk about it at all, but that’s not practical. It’s gonna come up. Stuff is gonna _keep coming up_. 

“Alastair,” Dean says, taking his hand back and stretching out his fingers, looking at the line of his hand. It set badly, which is probably why Cas noticed it. He broke three. Dean’s not really sure why he stopped before the whole damn set, or _why_ he did it at all, other than because he fucking could. The only real surprise is that the other’s set okay, given Dean attempted to strap them up himself, drunk and shaking with his one free hand. He was all out of unbroken bones to strap his little finger _to_ anything, but it could’ve been worse. He left his right hand alone and there’s no real lasting damage. 

Cas twists to kiss him and it’s a fucking excellent kiss, except --- except he knows that Cas is thinking about it, thinking about Alastair purposefully bending his finger until it broke. It’s a _distraction_ kiss. A _poor-fucking-Dean_ kiss. It’s Cas _not knowing what to do with his goddamn feelings kiss_ and ---- 

\-- He’s not doing that. Dean is _not_ doing that. 

“Cas,” Dean says, pulling back, his left hand curling into first on automatic. Sometimes, if he clenches his fist hard enough, his joints still hurt. “Don’t.” 

He needs --- coffee. Out of this bed. Out of his goddamn head. 

Obviously, Castiel follows him to the kitchen. 

“Dean.” 

“I’m gonna give you whiplash,” Dean mutters, fumbling with the coffee pot and a new mug, given he left his in the bedroom and he’s not about to walk back past Cas to retrieve it. “Damnit. You’re --- you’re fine, Cas. You didn’t do anything wrong.” 

“Dean,” Cas says, firm. That _don’t presume to bullshit me_ voice. That _you should show me some respect_ voice. Castiel being sixteen kinds of hot is to be celebrated, most of the time, but it’s not necessarily helpful right now. 

“Fine, you didn’t do anything wrong on purpose. I just need _this_ ,” Dean says, gesturing towards Cas, “To be a long way away from anything to do with Alastair, or my freaking bed.” 

“Allright,” Cas says, like it’s _simple_. Dean squares and jaw and just looks at him, because he was expecting some kind of emotional hangover from all of it. He was expecting some misguided apology, or for Cas to backrack and wanna talk it all out some more, but Cas is back to _stoic_ and solid. 

He doesn’t really know what to do with that. 

“Cas,” Dean says, after he’s taken a couple of sips of coffee and cooled his jets. “What’s --- what’s going on in your head?” 

“That I will endeavour not to talk about Alastair in bed or kiss you after he has come up.” 

And that all sounds pretty straightforward and simple in Cas’ gravelly tones, even though this is far from goddamn simple. Dean doesn’t know what he’s doing, so it’s not like he can expect _Cas_ to know what the fuck he’s doing. It’s not simple. 

_Things are going to keep coming up_. 

“I, uh —- got some boundaries I don’t even know about yet. Not trying to set you up to fail.” Dean says, “I’ll keep you updated.” 

“I know,” Cas says, “We’ll work it out, Dean.” 

“Just,” Dean says, the words cloying up in this throat. “The thought of you pitying me makes me wanna break something.” 

“That’s not what I was doing,” Castiel says, “Dean. You’re the bravest man I’ve ever met,” Castiel says, which is six kinds of hilarious given everything. Dean was found unconscious in an unlocked motel room, alone. He could’ve left. He could’ve just walked out, and he didn’t. He drank half a bottle of whatever alcohol Alastair left in the room --- some kind of spirit that Dean’s pretty sure would turn over his stomach if he smelt it now --- and passed out. Dean’s the guy that didn’t come out to his best friend for fifteen years. Dean’s the guy that tells his brother every time he has a bad dream. There’s still a massive box of _fuck nope_ locked inside his head that he’s not ready to get into yet, that he’s repressed hard enough that sometimes he’s not sure if the latest nightmare is reality bubbling over, or a brand new creation. He’s _not_ brave, but Cas is sincere enough about it that Dean really doesn’t have the heart to contradict him. It kinda makes him want to live up to expectations, instead. To be that guy that Cas sees, rather than _this one_. “You are _miraculous_ and I was thinking about that, but I understand that you don’t live in my head and that I need to vocalise for you to follow my train of thought.” 

“Right,” Dean says, “So you weren’t thinking about how you wanna track the guy down and smite him.” 

“Dean, _Alastair_ is not my priority. As long as he is nowhere near you, I don’t care about him. _I care about you_. Yes, I hate that he caused you pain. It is ---- harrowing to think about that, and, yes, I am still processing, but,” Cas says, trailing off slightly. He’s still wearing one of Dean’s old Metallica t-shirts, after he showed up here with _nothing_ like he wasn’t expecting to stay the night. Everything felt intense and emotional enough last night that sex was definitely off the table and Dean kinda didn’t want the grissly reality of his scars to reset Castiel’s funk, so he slept in a t-shirt and grabbed one for Cas too. Despite the shitty circumstances, Dean could really, really get used to Cas wearing his clothes. He’s freaking beautiful. “This is going to happen,” Cas continues, “I am going to accidentally stumble into your triggers and your history, and you need to tell me.” 

“Yeah,” Dean says, squaring his jaw, “Yeah, I know.” 

“I ---I am sorry that it demands such vulnerability from you. I will try and…. And anticipate ---” 

“--- don’t,” Dean says, “I, uh. Not saying you should go searching for goddamn landmines, but, uh --- honestly, I’d rather something blew up in my face than you treating me like I’m a goddamn child. Still got my pride, you know.” 

“Okay.” 

“Okay?” Dean asks. 

“Dean,” Cas says, “ _You_ are the one who has been dealing with this. _You_ get to determine how _we_ deal with it. I trust you.” 

“Okay then,” Dean says, exhaling. 

“You have a family dinner on Sundays,” Cas says, which means Dean must have mentioned that at some point at the Beach House. He doesn’t really remember the conversation, but they talked a lot over that week and a half. Or maybe it was Sam, instead, but either way it’s a decent enough transition into talking about _literally anything else_. 

“Uh, yeah.” Dean says, “Bobby’s cooking. Said I’d get back to him about if we were coming.” 

“We?” 

“Yeah, we,” Dean says, “You think you’re bailing on me after _one night_ , after I’ve been wanting to see you all damn week you got another thing coming.” Dean says, and Cas very graciously doesn’t mention the parts of that which were Dean’s fault. “When do you have to get back to the big apple?” 

“I don’t know, someone broke my phone,” Cas deadpans. 

“Hilarious.” 

“Wednesday to Saturday.” Castiel says, stepping forward into his space and settling close. And… it’s good that Cas isn’t scared of coming near him. Even with a few more hints of what a total nut job Dean is, Cas is edging closer rather than keeping his distance. 

“Allright,” Dean says, “Well, either we go to Bobby’s today, or you’re coming next week. I hold you ransom any longer than that, he’ll be riding my ass.” 

“I haven’t seen Bobby for a long time.” Cas says, reaching out and thumbing the edge of Dean’s shirt like this casual intimacy is normal. Dean’s wanted to get a _just a bit closer_ for years, and Castiel is offering it up on a silver platter. He hopes that he never loses the wonder of this. He hopes that if they do this for fifty freakin years (and, god, he hopes so) that Dean’s still just as struck by Cas close enough that he can feel his body heat. 

“Decade, easy,” Dean says, wetting his lips with his tongue and just looking at him, “Should warn you, he can’t cook for shit. Think Ellen’s coming next Sunday, so --” 

“-- Dean,” Cas says, “I want to go.” 

“Cool,” Dean says, “I’ll --- I’ll text him.” 

“Good.” 

“And uh, speaking of people riding my ass…. there’s Charlie.” 

“From your games night.” 

“Yeah,” Dean says, “Actually, they all wanna meet you, but Charlie is — “ 

“Loudest.” 

“Oh she’s the loudest, but that’s not what I was gonna say,” Dean says. 

“She’s...your best friend.” 

“She’s family,” Dean says. That feels a little _less loaded_ than ‘best friend’, given their years of history. “Sister I never had, vibes. Total pain in the ass. Second I mentioned you, she got all fangirl and made me dig out our freaking prom pictures.” 

“You said she calls me _Dreamy McDream face_.” 

“Yeah, was hoping she won’t call you that to your _face_.” 

“Hmm, I’ve been called worse things than _dreamy_ ,” Castiel says, “Do you have our prom pictures?” 

“Bobby,” Dean says, “He’ll probably drag them out, if you get him with your baby blues. So, uh —- you’re out of town for games night this week, but… you wanna meet Charlie next weekend?” 

“All right,” Cas says, stretching out his shoulders. 

“Then we need to tackle _your_ friends.” 

“May I use your shower?” Cas asks. As diversion techniques go, it’s not that subtle. Dean’s pretty sure that Castiel learned that one from him a long ass time ago given it’s a regular Winchester-special, but...it’s hard to dredge up the energy to argue with him after Cas’ heart-wrenching _I’m unhappy_ speech last night. The guy needs some time. Dean’s counting on them having a lot of time. 

“I’ll get you a towel,” Dean says. 

“I’m going to find my phone,” Cas says, kissing him on the way out. 

Bobby cooks a pretty passable meatloaf and _somehow_ Bobby and Cas get locked into a pretty intense game of chess, while Dean and Sam are relegated to digging through old photographs. 

They never get to the prom pictures, but Dean does find a picture from that first trip to the Beach House. Sam is an adorable little eight year old with a crappy DIY-haircut and the biggest smile on his face, while Cas is wide-eyed and serious. Dean sits in the middle looking happier and more innocent than he ever remembers being, with one hand on each of their shoulders. It’s a good picture and he’s not really sure how it ended up in one of Bobby’s photo albums until he pulls it out of his sleeve and finds a note scribbled on the back, from Chuck to John Winchester. 

_Thought you’d like this picture of the kids on the sunniest day of the year_. 

Before they leave, Bobby claps Castiel on the shoulder and tells him he’ll make copies for next Sunday. 

* 

This is the fourth night Cas has stayed over at his apartment and they’ve yet to have sex. Last weekend was intense enough on its own and given everything they talked about, it didn’t really _feel_ like the right time, but Dean’s kinda been in his head about it since. Cas came over so late last night it barely counts, after New York sucked enough that he caught an earlier flight home, came straight over from the airport and refused to talk about it… but it _could_ have happened this morning, or this afternoon, or at any point before they went to meet Charlie for bowling and burgers. At the Beach House, they committed pretty hard to the middle-of-the-day-sex and it was all kinda of awesome, but… apparently, that isn’t something that translates to Dean’s apartment. 

He figured it would definitely happen tonight. He’s _prepared_ , mentally and physically, for it to happen after they got back. He stuck with freaking soda at dinner like a goddamn teenager and he mentally recapped and reboxed up a whole bunch of stuff in his head to clear the way, but at some point _preparation_ crossed over into _pressure_ in his head and now Dean’s wrong-footed and not sure if it’s a good idea, at all. He’s nervous. Damn the fact that they covered this ground pretty solidly already, suddenly he’s a virgin on prom night and it is _maddening_. 

“I just don’t understand the necessity of the shoes.” 

“We _must_ have gone bowling before, Cas,” Dean says, spinning his car keys through his fingers as they spill back through the front door of his apartment and into the kitchen. 

“No,” Cas says, “Perhaps you took your girlfriends.” 

“Hilarious,” Dean says, although maybe he did. He doesn’t really remember. All of that stuff was a long time ago and there was no one important enough for him to hold onto the details of individual dates. “And if you show up in _normal sneakers_ rather than your fancy ass work shoes —-” 

“—- you didn’t tell me about the shoes.” 

“My bad, forgot you’re a thirty two year old _alien_ who's never been to a bowling alley,” Dean throws back, “You like Charlie?” 

“Yes,” Cas says, settling close to him, “I like Charlie.” 

The thing is, Cas isn’t dumb. He knows that Dean rarely drinks kid-drinks out of choice and he already pieced together the complicated relationship that Dean has with alcohol-and-sex. Cas _knows_ this is the fourth night he’s slept over at Dean’s apartment and that Dean spent a lot longer than normal in the shower right before they went out. He _knows_ what was going on in Dean’s head and that this _should_ be the point that Dean closes the gap and kisses him with intent. 

Except, he’s pretty sure he can’t. 

_His stupid fucking head_. 

“Awesome,” Dean says. “You wanna drink?” 

“No,” Cas says, “I think —- shower.” 

“Huh, you really hated those shoes,” Dean says. He doesn’t really know where this has even come from, except maybe it was easier to wade in too-early than it was to be thinking about everything. It’s fast and slow, both at once, and he really goddamn wants this to all work out with everything in his being, and now he’s thought about it too much. He can’t freaking quit it. “Left a towel out for you,” He continues, pushing himself off the edge of the kitchen counter and going via the fridge. If he’s not gonna get laid, which is feeling like an increasingly doomed mission, then he might as well fucking drink. 

Castiel clocks it. That piercing blue gaze tracking his movement as he cracks open a beer with his ring and takes a long drink. 

They should probably actually talk about it, but _talking about_ not having sex sounds even shittier than just not having sex, and Dean doesn’t really know what the damn problem is, so what could he even say? 

“Thank you,” Cas says, without comment on the other thing. 

_Fucking-awesome._

Dean drinks another swallow of beer and vaguely potters around the kitchen putting stuff away for something to do. 

It’s extra annoying, because it’s _going well_. 

Charlie freaking loves him and has already sent him a couple of hundred texts to that effect, which isn’t exactly a damn surprise. Cas is awesome. A regular, snarky, badass nerd in a trench coat, who combines that with thinking the sun shines out of Dean’s ass. The latter alone would probably be enough for Charlie to declare that they’re ‘best friends’ now, because she’s pretty damn protective over Dean’s heart. 

They had a good day. A _really_ good day. It’s just --- an _adjustment_. 

He finds himself wandering into the bedroom to check if they left any half-drunk cups of coffee here this morning, but it looks like Cas already cleaned up at some point. He sits heavily on the edge of the bed and considers texting Sam, but it feels just a little too pathetic and too personal. He opts for tetris, instead, because he needs to do something with his hands and he’s _fed up of fucking thinking_. 

—- And then Castiel comes out of the bathroom wearing _jeans_ and no shirt, all damp and flushed and perfect from the damn shower. 

Dean sets down his beer and stares. 

“My —- I got my shirt wet,” Castiel says, clearly a little thrown by seeing Dean sat there and looking at him. He’s probably explaining away his half nudity thinking he’s been disrespectful, given Dean’s silent cue that they’re _not_ getting it on, like he’d ever want Cas to apologies for walking around looking _like that_. 

“Oh yeah, the shower door sucks. You gotta —- damn,” Dean says, losing the thread of this thought. “This _wet look_ thing is really working for you.” 

Cas tilts his head at him. He’s got that pleased-flush creeping up the back of his neck that’s every kind of cute and reminds Dean a little of how gratified Cas always looks when he makes Dean smile (since he’s started letting himself believe it, it’s becoming increasingly obvious that Cas _ain't lying_ about how much he loves him. The guy doesn’t do anything by half-measures and he doesn't say anything he doesn’t mean. He _really_ goddamn loves him). Dean could _really_ get used to Cas’ just-been-complimented look. He wears it so well. 

“You think I’m attractive.” 

And --- _okay_ , Dean has got to get better at using his freaking words. 

“Cas, you’re fucking gorgeous,” Dean says, “You’ve been _killing me_ with your freaking voice, and your goddamn blue-stares and your _unassuming gravitas_ since I was a teenager, and now you’re just…” Dean trails off, gesturing to try and encapsulate something a bit like _beautiful_ a bit like _earth shattering_ and a bit like _straight up fucking hot_ , but words aren’t exactly his strong suit. He’ll do better, though, because Cas ---- Cas is pretty insecure about a lot of things. Dean’s pretty sure he hurt him a lot with his silence, all those years ago, and he’s learning that this incredible, adult Cas is way too hard on himself. He deserves to know about the waxed poetics in Dean’s head, even though it’s a helluva lot more natural for him to keep them internal. He’ll do better. They’ll get better at this. “Never been so attracted to another person in my damn life.” 

“Dean,” Cas says, voice rough with something irresistible, “Give me your phone.” 

Dean hands it over and Cas slides it to the other end of the bed with a lot more precision and grace than Dean managed. 

“Your way better at that than me.” Dean comments, as Cas steps forward, takes Dean’s now-empty hand and kisses him. He’s all warm from the shower, smelling like _Dean’s freaking shampoo_ with his hair damp and a thumb tracing over Dean’s jawline. Cas makes a move to step back, which is a fucking travesty, and Dean stops him by looping his hands around his belt loop. 

He takes a breath. Checks in with the rest of his head. Takes a couple of slow, deliberate lungfuls of air, while Cas frowns at him and --- 

\--- and there is _no_ goddamn problem here. 

Dean pulls him back into his personal space. 

“Dean?” 

“I’m good,” Dean exhales, “ _Really_ good.” 

“Allright,” Cas says, like it’s _simple_ and then he kissess him again and --- 

\--- _absolutely no goddamn problems here._. 

* 

“Dean,” Cas says, in that post-coital voice that Dean is never gonna freaking recover from. It’s even _lower_ and gravellier and goddamn perfect. “This is the part where you tell me I was ‘awesome’. I’ve heard it's _’polite’_.” 

“Shut up,” Dean says, tracing circles on his arm,“You're disturbing my happy place.” 

“But Dean,” Cas says, “I _am_ your happy place.” 

“You’re feeling pretty good about yourself right now, huh?” Dean asks, shifting slightly to look at him and regretting it when something digs into his back. 

“Mhm. Stop _moving_ , I’m comfortable.” 

“I’m --- I’m _on_ my goddamn phone,” Dean mutters, twisting to retrieve it and dropping it back onto the bed next to him. Cas resettles himself against his side, casually dropping a kiss onto his shoulder blade as he does. “Man, I hope we didn’t just butt dial someone.” Cas smiles into his skin. “Unless it was Sam,” Dean says, “Scarring Sam for life is always fun.” 

“Or if you left me a voicemail,” Cas says, “That would give me something to do in New York.” 

It should be _fucking illegal_ to be that hot. 

“You’re killing me,” Dean mutters, “Need to wear a goddamn bell. Give me a warning when you’re about to say something like that.” 

“Like what?” Cas asks, and this time he _knows_ that Cas is just feigning innocence and digging around for some kind of compliment and he can definitely get used to this, too. Cas all self-satisfied and freaking glowing. He can do all of this for a long damn time. They’re gonna be _just fine_. 

“Wait,” Dean says, “You’re going back to New York?” 

“Thursday,” Cas says, “One night.” 

“Well, that’s an improvement,” Dean exhales, “You, uh. You making progress?” 

“Yes,” Cas says, shifting onto his elbows, “We have finished negotiating.” 

“Yeah?” Dean asks, quirking an eyebrow at him. 

“No formal notice period, but I am obligated to personally hand over all of my clients,” Castiel says, “A year long non-compete in New York, six months here, no further litigation.” 

“And your money?” 

“They are not going withhold my buy-in.” 

“Hey --- that’s _great_ ,” Dean says, and he actually means it, which takes him half by surprise. “How long will this handover stuff take?” 

“Some time.” Cas says, which probably means that Cas expects he’d be pissed about the length of time that would involve. It sounds okay, though. Probably not a _bad thing_ for Cas to have actual, proper goodbyes, rather than his dramatic exit. Gives him more time to be sure. “But, I can make game’s night next week, if you still want me to come.” 

“Damn straight,” Dean says, “Like Charlie’s gonna give you any option.” 

“I don’t _know_ any of your games, Dean.” 

“I’ll teach you,” Dean says, “Should spend next weekend we spend at your place, then. Given I still don’t know where you freakin’ live.” 

“Okay,” Cas says, fixing him with the serious version of those eyes, “Dean. What happened?” 

“Dunno,” Dean exhales, because he doesn’t really have a clue. He was half freaking out and then something knocked loose in his head, and he wasn’t anymore. He’ll dissect it more later, because the hell is he gonna let this crap mess with the kick-ass sex life he fully intends to have, but for now he just wants to table it. “Just, stopped overthinking, but --- I’m good.” 

“You’re _excellent_.” Cas counters, tracing the outline of the pentagram on his chest and offering him this perfect little smile.


	4. Offices, bars & farmer's markets

Castiel has never really understood how to thread together all of the pieces of who he is into something that he could express outwardly. Mostly, people told him _who they thought he should be_ under the guise of telling him _who he actually was_ and Castiel took their words at face value. Michael said he was destined to work in Milton & Milton, and Lucifer said he was being brainwashed, and Naomi told him he was a failure and Gabriel told him he was boring and Anna told him he was wrong and he needed to _listen to his heart_. His father didn’t say _anything_ and Castiel spent years chasing some kind of judgement, good or bad, while Chuck reliably gave no opinion whatsoever. He was maddeningly indifferent. A wall of silence. An unmovable, consistent weight of _nothingness_ on his shoulders.

And then there’s _Dean_ , who had opinions on everything, but still always told Castiel he was _better than this_ that he was _more_ than any of their opinions, and persistently _liked_ him even while raining his judgement on his family and his career and his money and his decisions. 

He thought he would know what he was doing by now. 

He thought that cutting himself away from his _old life_ would make carrying his mistakes easier, but they still feel heavy. He still doesn’t know what he _wants_. He still doesn’t know what he’s _supposed to be doing_. He doesn’t know what his father wanted, or if what his father wanted matters, or if he even wants to know. He _doesn’t know_ and ----

\--- And then there is Dean, who wears his mistakes with dignity and strength, who has taken to calling Castiel on the nights he spends alone in New York, and who is currently several meters away from Castiel’s office, casually chatting to the receptionist like he’s supposed to be here.

He probably shouldn’t be surprised given Dean’s growing insistence to insert himself in Castiel’s life. He’s been trying to nudge Castiel into talking about his friends, the last dregs of work he needs to complete before he’s finished and Castiel’s usual routine. Castiel had finally conceded on Dean spending the weekend at his apartment (after two consecutive cancellations, he couldn’t think of another reason) and Dean was _supposed_ to meet him at a restaurant at seven.

It’s just after five, which means Dean must have left work early in order to turn up at Castiel’s office and Castiel doesn’t really know what to do with that, apart from to continue to ogle at him through the glass wall of his office. He looks _very good_ in the nicest of his leather jackets, a button-down shirt and a pair of jeans that Castiel would be fully prepared to write a sonnet to, should it come up. He looks more relaxed when Castiel would have expected, given Dean has never hidden his opinions about places like this very well. 

Apparently, if you stare intently at someone through a glass wall, they notice. 

Dean _winks_ at him through the glass, then leans forward and says something to the receptionist. She laughs and glances in Castiel’s direction too, waves, then looks back down at her desk. On cue, Castiel’s desk phone rings.

“Hello Moria,” Castiel deadpans, picking up the phone without breaking Dean’s gaze. 

“Hello Castiel,” The reception says cheerily, “I have a message from you from the front desk.”

“Yes?”

“Dean says _take a picture, it’ll last longer_.”

“I don’t think this is in your job description,” Castiel says, “Tell him I’ll see him in my office, now.”

Dean is still leant with his elbow on the reception desk and it’s gratifying to watch him laugh, then have some inaudible negotiation with Moria that somehow ends up with Dean taking her phone.

“We need to label you not safe for work.” 

“Dean, give the nice receptionist back her phone.”

“Haven’t been _summoned_ to someone’s office since freakin’ high school.”

“I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Called a surprise, Cas.” 

“Yes, you are very surprising.”

“You done? Cause I can hang out here till you’re finished. Moria here was just telling me about the stationary coup of twenty seventeen. Good times.”

“Are you flirting with my work colleagues?” Castiel asks, which has Dean looking comically sheepish and quickly removing his elbow from the corner of the reception desk and straightening up. He isn’t really serious, because Dean _just is_ easy-going and defaults to charming, but it is amusing to watch him squirm slightly until he registers that Castiel is smirking at him. 

“I bought caffeine,” Dean says, “Though I’m pretty sure it’s cold.”

“You’ve been here a long time?”

“Not a _long_ time,” Dean says, “So you want me in your office, huh?”

“I’m going to hang up now.”

“So, do I need to knock?”

“No,” Castiel says, “You do not need to knock.”

“I’m gonna knock,” Dean says, looking incredibly self satisfied as he hands the phone back to Moria with a grin and some inaudible comment that makes Moria smile. Dean has always been good at getting people to like him, which Castiel has never quite achieved with the same ease and grace. It stirs up another well of affection for the man, as he casually offers the receptionist a salute before turning in the direction of Castiel’s office.

“He’s cute, Castiel.” Moria says, back on the line, “You should keep him.”

“Thank you for your input,” Castiel deadpans, “Goodbye, Moira.”

Obviously, Dean knocks and _waits_ until Castiel stands up and lets him into the room.

“You’re a child.”

“Maybe,” Dean grins, “But I’ve been here forty minutes and it’s the first time I’ve seen you smile, so I’m cool with it. Coffee.” 

“Cold coffee,” Castiel says, taking the coffee Dean presses into his hand and frowning it.

“Maybe,” Dean says, “Picked it up twenty minutes back, but I asked for extra hot. So this is the control room, huh?” Dean says, pacing out his office and pausing to look at his diploma from Harvard law with an expression Castiel can’t decipher. 

The coffee isn’t bad. It’s tepid, but tolerable, and it’s very thoughtful of Dean to have picked it up. 

“Office tradition,” Castiel says, as Dean continues to look at his diploma and Castiel’s self-consciousness increases. He’s relatively sure that he told Dean he’d finally succumbed to the Milton tradition of Harvard law via text, because he didn’t want to see that slight squaring of the jaw and deliberately level expression that signified Dean’s disappointment. He doesn’t remember them having a conversation about it face to face, but by then they had already started to drift apart. “Dean, why are you here?”

“Bobby let me out early. Wanted to beat the traffic,” Dean says, “And you’re clearing out this place today. Figure you might want some company.”

“There isn’t much to do,”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “Little sparse in here, considering this has been base camp for four freaking years.”

“I’ve had this office for two years,” Castiel says, “There was an office move.” 

“Really into their _glass_ , huh?” Dean says, walking back round his office again and pausing to look at his diploma again. “Not even a freaking desk plant.”

“I have a proclivity for killing plants,” Castiel deadpans, as Dean finishes his second loop and sits, heavily, on the chair opposite his desk. It’s disconcerting to have _Dean_ in his office, like two sides of himself are being slammed together with force and... he wishes all of this were easier.

Dean is the love of his life. Things are supposed to be _less complicated_ now they are in a relationship. 

“So, uh, Moira was telling me about this leaving drinks they’re throwing you tonight.” Dean says, fixing him with a searching look that means he’s unlikely to win whatever argument they’re about to have. 

“Yes,”

“See, I’m a little confused,” Dean says, “Given Moira also told me _you’re not going._ ”

“We have dinner plans.” 

“Cas, we’re not doing anything tomorrow night, let’s get dinner then.”

“But Friday is steak night.” 

“Hell, I’m not planning on breaking up with you before this time next week, let’s get steak next week.”

“Dean,” Castiel says, pained. 

“Level with me here, why don’t you want to go?”

“We have _plans_.” 

“What’s going on, Cas? Cause I’ve been talking to those guys, and no one has seen you in months, and they wanna throw you a freakin’ party. So throw me a bone here. Is it me? Cause I can be pretty likable. Just ask Moria. She thinks I’m cute and that you should keep me around.”

“You’re very persistent and annoying.”

“Plus adorable and a dynamite in the sack. Them's the breaks, tiger,” Dean says, leaning forward to look at him. “Talk to me.”

“You don’t like lawyers.” Castiel says, although it’s only part of the answer. He _doesn’t know_ how to knit these two parts of his life together, but he’s also not sure if he wants to. He doesn’t _like_ the person he’s been for the past few years and he doesn’t know where that Castiel begins or ends. He _doesn’t know_ what he’s doing, and he doesn’t want Dean to dislike all those parts of himself and the thought of making _small talk_ about his next steps when he _has_ no determined next steps is exhausting.

“Okay as a general rule, sure, I think lawyers are douchebags,” Dean says, “But given a hundred percent of my favourite people on the planet are freakin’ lawyers, maybe my rule sucks. Try again.”

Castiel is one of _Dean’s favourite people on the planet_.

He knew that used to be true, a long time ago. He _suspected_ it could be the case when Dean insisted on driving him to the airport last Sunday, kissed him in the impala and said ‘bye Cas’ in the same tone of voice that some people make love declarations, but it’s comforting to have confirmation. 

“But they _are douchebags_ , Dean. I don’t _like_ most of them.”

“You like knows-how-to-have-a-good-time, Meg,” Dean counters, “Some guy named Zeke let me in the building and he didn’t seem like a total asshat and seemed to like you.”

“Yes, Ezekiel is… a friend.” Castiel frowns.

“Allright,” Dean says, “Then let them buy you a damn beer.”

“Why do you want to go?”

“I don’t,” Dean says “Lawyers are douchebags. But I want _you_ to go. Cas, maybe they are all assholes, but maybe, just maybe, you’re so damn focused on quitting that you’re forgetting that you worked with these people for four years and they care about you. You can’t _unburn_ bridges, Cas, and it’s one night. If it’s a bust, then it’a a bust.”

“Fine,” Castiel says, “I — we’ll go.”

“Okay then,” Dean says, “You got more work to finish up?”

“No, I’m done,” Castiel says, “I just need to,” he continues, gesturing vaguely at the wall.

“You want me to wait in the car? Give you a moment.”

“Dean,” Castiel says, “I am not emotionally attached to this office.” 

“Okay,” Dean says, tapping his fingers against the table and standing up. “Well, I’ll go tell Moria we’re in for tonight, anyway. Meet you out front.” Dean continues, tapping out in a very Dean-ish display of good intentions and not actually listening to him that still manages to be endearing.

He _isn’t_ emotionally attached to his office, even if Dean doesn’t believe him.

It’s a room in a building that he’s spent a large part of the last two years, but he didn’t _enjoy_ them. They were his atonement for his years in New York, after compiling his list of mistakes and feeling overwhelmed and miserable and _lost_.

He came here because he didn’t want to be _there_.

But --- 

As he slides into the front seat of the impala with a box of his belongings on his lap, he’s suddenly pleased that he’s not doing this alone. There’s something about carrying his mug, a few notepads and his diploma that hollows him out, like he’s emptied part of himself rather than office. He doesn’t know what to _do with that_ and he’d much rather deposit his belongings on the backseat and lean over to kiss boyfriend than work out how to process it.

“Hey,” Dean says, shifting to allow Castiel a better angle to cup his face and deepen the kiss. Recent evidence suggests that they are not really PDA people, but the impala is a different matter, and it is difficult _not_ to kiss Dean when he hasn’t seen him since last Sunday thanks to several more nights in New York and two days of intense handover here. 

Plus, Dean finished work early to be with Castiel as he emptied his desk. He has diligently convinced him to attend these drinks, even though Dean is likely to find it boring and uncomfortable. He has insisted on spending the weekend here, with Castiel, and he looks very good in that shirt.

“You look nice,” Castiel says, running his hands over Dean’s shoulders, and settling with his fingers brushing against the hairs at the nape of Dean’s neck. 

“You too,” Dean says, “Never really recovered from you in a freaking suit.”

“Thank you,” Castiel says, and kisses him again.

They’re very good at this. He’s now spent sufficient time making out with Dean Winchester that he’s chased away the prosiding memory of deliberately maintaining some physical distance. It’s natural, now, to slip into his car and have Dean stretch his arm along the back of the impala and to tuck himself into the gap and make himself at home there. He _remembers_ the frustrating swirl of longing that followed him around for most of their friendship, but now he has to dig it, and he’d much rather _forget about it_ and focus on becoming intimately acquainted with the shape of Dean’s mouth.

“Cas,” Dean says, “You think you’re gonna distract me from these drinks,” He continues, as Castiel drops a kiss under his earlobe to try and inspire _that noise_ from the back of Dean’s throat. “Then,” Dean exhales, curling a hand around his thigh. “Then, yeah, you got me.”

He’d _like_ to have access to the excellent line of Dean’s collarbone, but that would involve undoing the top button of his shirt and they are in a parking lot, so he settles the matter by pressing their lips together again and ---

\--- and then Meg wraps her knuckles against the window.

“Hey Clarence,” Meg says, after he’s wound down the window and assumed appropriate physical distance from his boyfriend. She looks amused, but Meg walks into every situation like she’s found some grim humour in it, so that isn’t surprising. “And… I’m guessing this is the mystery boyfriend.”

He hasn’t spoken to Meg for a while. She tried to pull the _dramatic quitting and then continuing to turn up_ story out of him, but he was in the middle of a long distance battle of passive aggression with Crowley and discussing it seemed like it would prolong the misery. He texted her the headlines and his revised end date and ignored her follow up messages. It hadn’t really registered that he hadn’t told her about Dean. 

They’d spoken about it _before_ , after Dean appeared at the funeral. There was a large amount of vodka and Meg’s comforting lack of empathy and Castiel told her about _spin the bottle_ and _the wedding_ and how Dean kept suggesting they get coffee. He stopped talking to her about it after she started referring to him as the ‘redneck closet case’. He couldn’t stop finding it irritating and he was very sure that Dean had never been in the closet. The regular suggestions didn’t help, even if she had something adjacent to a point. 

She is the one that arranged his leaving drinks and she’s the one who decided they would have them without them if Castiel wouldn’t play ball. She deserves better.

And _Dean_ deserves better.

_He doesn’t know what he’s doing._

“Meg, this is Dean.”

“Huh,” Meg says, with an edge to her smile. “ _Dean._ ”

“Meg.” Castiel says, that familiar exhaustion beginning to settle in his stomach. 

“You’re getting predictable, Clarence,” Meg says, straightening up and offering Dean a little wave.“See you later, Dean.”

“Cas.”

“We should get back,” Castiel says heavily, “We need to eat before drinks.”

Dean nods and turns over the engine without comment.

It’s less than a five minute drive to his apartment, given one of his primary reasons for picking the place was its proximity. He wanted to cut down his commute, which would have been effective if he hadn’t spent half of his time on a plane.

Castiel has been trying _very hard_ to get rid of the parts of his life that he didn’t like for years, he just never managed to make it stick.

“Huh,” Dean says, as he pulls up into the parking lot , “Guessing I see why you normally walk.”

“I hated the subway.”

“Yeah, that would do it,” Dean says, grabbing his bag and Castiel’s sparse box of belongings out of the backseat. “Lead the way, Cas.”

The concept of Dean being in his apartment has been haunting him for the last month. He _wanted_ him here, until the easy rhythm of things at Dean’s place settled under his skin and began to feel normal and _full_ in a way that Castiel’s life hasn’t been for a long time. Dean has games night on Wednesdays, dinner with his brother on Fridays and Sunday lunch at Bobby’s. He’s surrounded himself with people who love him.

Dean took all of these things that happened to him and turned them into a reason to shape his life into something enviable and lovely. Castiel took all of his decisions and mistakes and turned to _empty spaces_. Dean has been trying to blend their lives together, but there’s nothing admirable or _good_ about Castiel’s life. His routine won’t _bring anything_ , so he’s been trying to resist the incursion. Obviously, Dean has been having none of it. 

He feels naked as he leads Dean up to his front door and lets him in which is illogical, because Dean _has_ seen him naked and that was good all round. It’s ridiculous that he is self-conscious about his apartment, when Dean has dragged vulnerability out of his chest with more courage that Castiel could have ever expected of him, but… watching him pace round the edges of his home still makes him feel uneasy.

“You’ve lived here, how long?” Dean asks, as Castiel takes his box of belongings from him to allow Dean to continue to poke around.

“Four years,”

“Now this is a freaking kitchen,” Dean says, running a finger over the edge of the counter.

“Do you want a drink?” Castiel says, setting his box of belongings down near the sofa and tracking Dean’s expression. He needs to explain why he didn’t tell Meg about Dean. He needs to explain why he’s been keeping Dean away from his apartment. He needs to explain why he has suddenly erected all these walls, when he doesn’t want them, doesn’t like them, and does not understand them.

“N’ah, I’m good,” Dean says, “No plants here, either.”

“I don’t remember you owning any plants.”

“No,” Dean concedes, “Do have some pictures on the freaking wall though.”

“I’m,” Castiel begins, “I didn’t anticipate living here this long and I don’t spend much time here.”

“It’s a nice place, Cas.”

“Thank you,” Cas says, “Dean, I haven’t…. some of my colleagues are unaware of your existence.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “I got that, when Zeke looked at me like I had two heads.”

“You’re not…. Offended.”

“He also said you hadn’t exactly been chatty Cathy, lately.” Dean says, “I dunno, Cas. Still tryin’ to work out why you don’t _want_ me here.”

“That’s inaccurate,” Castiel says, “There are very few places I don’t want you.”

“Cute,” Dean says, fixing him with a fond look that still has the ability to turn Castiel’s stomach inside out. “Guessing you have a bedroom somewhere behind that door.”

“Yes,” Castiel says, “I’ll —- show you the rest.”

“ _Damn_ ,” Dean says, “Now this bed is awesome.” He continues, kicking off his shoes and half throwing himself onto the middle of it. 

“It is very comfortable.”

“And freaking huge,” Dean says.

“I should,” Castiel says, gesturing vaguely to his wardrobe and beginning to loosen his tie. Last time he went to their after-work drinks (at Meg’s persuasion), he just went straight from take-out-consumed-in-office to bar. If he’s here, he should probably change into something he hasn’t been sitting around in all day. De-suit, if only for Dean’s sake. 

“So, uh, other than the fact most of these guys don’t know who the hell I am,” Dean says, “What else have I got to look forward to?”

“Imbibing alcohol.”

“You slept with any of these yahoos?” Dean asks, casually enough that Castiel turns around to frown at him. “What, Cas? You’re not a monk.”’

“I remember your face when I said your brother was attractive.”

“Okay, different freaking ballgame,” Dean says, “One, I didn’t know you were into me and _two_ , you were checking out my little brother _in front of me_. I can handle an ex.”

“Your brother _is_ good looking,” Castiel says, mostly so he can see Dean’s swallowed-a-lemon look and smirk at him. 

“Shame you haven’t got any pictures of your family in here. That Samandriel’s a handsome sonuvabitch.”

“I’d have thought Michael is more your type.”

“All right, this is officially putting me off watching you get changed, and I am not okay with that.”

“One of them,” Castiel says, “But he’s not an ex. We didn’t date and I don’t know if he’s coming tonight.”

“One in four years,” Dean says, “Huh. Pretty monk-ish.”

He opts not to remind him about Crowley.

“How many of _your_ colleagues have you slept with?”

“Zero,” Dean says, “Avoids questions.”

Dean has the word _worthless_ cut into his skin. He shouldn’t have _asked_. He should have worked that out. 

“Dean,” Castiel says, sitting next to him and exhaling. “I —- since the litigation against Milton & Milton, I have endeavoured to keep my personal life _away_ , from work. It isn’t about _you_. I am _very_ happy about us.”

“Looks a lot more like you’ve tried not to _have_ a personal life, but okay.”

“I lost a lot of money.”

“Seems like you’re doing okay,” Dean says, nodding vaguely at the apartment.

“I’m not _broke_.” Castiel says, which seems like the safest response. Dean has been uncharacteristically reticent about Castiel’s money, but he has also somehow manipulated their mostly-unspoken agreements to take it in turns to pay for dates so that he always pays for the more expensive places. It is irritating but probably not worth the argument, so Castiel has pretended not to notice and has been rewarded by Dean _not_ commenting on how much he tips. It’s probably not sustainable long term, but it has only been four weeks since they were at the Beach House.

This relationship is still very new. 

“No shit,” Dean exhales, “Shouldn’t’ve just showed up, expect you to be happy about it.”

“I _am_ happy about it,” Castiel corrects, “I just —- I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, some of the tension falling out of his shoulders. “I know. Let’s —- see what food you’ve got in this place,” Dean says, swinging his legs back off the bed and heading to Castiel’s kitchen.

*

They go to the same place as where they’d had drinks for his birthday (Meg organised that too, after Castiel told her that he intended to _do nothing_ ) and it's surprisingly pleasant. 

Dean is exuberant and likeable and has an uncanny ability to gravitate to people Castiel actually likes without prompting and ---

\--- he’d forgotten about Meg and Ezekiel and Kevin. They organised flowers to be sent to his father’s funeral and Castiel has been too busy _thinking_ to update then on his mental state. It’s good to see them. It's good to watch them chat to Dean. It's good that he went.

After they get home, he whispers his thanks into Dean’s neck and falls asleep with Dean sleepily rambling about how comfortable Castiel’s mattress is next to him and Castiel is achingly pleased that Dean is _right here_. 

*

He wakes at some point in the middle of the night to Dean having a nightmare. It hasn’t happened very often while Castiel has been there -- two or three times, maybe -- and each time Castiel has pretended to sleep through Dean tossing and turning at Dean’s request that he _stays out of it_. Every time, he has been on the cusp of giving in and trying to _do something_ when Dean has woken up, dragged himself out of bed and disappeared into the bathroom for however long, before coming back to bed and sleeping badly for the rest of the night. In the morning, he was either quiet and slightly-distant, or _more Dean_ then normal. More likely to crack a joke, laugh, clap Castiel on the shoulder and kiss him in public. He hasn’t worked out the pattern yet, but he’s been trying. 

This time, Dean sits bolt up in bed and breathes, heavily, into the dark. It goes against his instincts to _do nothing_ , but Dean had been very clear that he wanted to handle it himself and Castiel made a silent vow to follow Dean’s lead to the letter. _Dean_ is the one who has been doing this for years and he has a right to his privacy and his dignity and his pride, even though it takes great physical effort not to do something. He isn’t sure what he _would_ do, anyway, but ignoring Dean in pain is …. Difficult.

He both does and doesn’t want to know what the nightmares are about, but he hasn’t asked. Ever since the broken finger question, he has been very deliberate to steer away from anything that might bring Alastair up by accident and this would be much more purposeful than that. Besides, Castiel can make an educated guess. He’s _seen_ Dean’s scars. He’s _seen_ Dean’s gaze fix on his own skin, with that jaw-squared determined grit. He’s _seen_ parts of Dean’s vulnerability and heard enough of his story to be certain that the nightmares are bad.

After a few moments of breathing, Dean gets out of bed and stumbles to the bathroom. Castiel continues to pretend to sleep and listens to Dean running the tap. He mentally fills in the gap with Dean splashing water on his face, trying to ground himself back in real life. 

Castiel wants to _go to him_ , sit with him, help, but he’s aware that selfish. He’s trying to lessen his own discomfort with Dean’s discomfort. Dean doesn’t need his help. He has been dealing with this for years, while Castiel has been faffing around with his job and his mistakes. But ---

\--- He _wants to help_. 

He has always hated feeling powerless. 

He’s always hated Dean _pushing him out_ of things, but he’s sure he used to have greater reserves of patience. Eventually, Dean would tell him, after he was done wallowing, or done chasing _fun_ as a way to block out his pain, but that was different. It was _John Winchester_ disappearing. It was Sam wanting to go to college thousands of miles away. It was Mary Wincher’s birthday. They were real soul-deep hurts, but they weren’t _this_.

Castiel has been trying to process, like Dean suggested. He’s had plenty of nights in empty hotel rooms to ruminate on Alastair and try and work out he feels. Two weeks ago, he spent his Wednesday evening writing everything that he knew on a piece of paper to _get it out of his head_ , but it all seemed worse scribbled down in his cursive. Writing _don’t talk about Alastair in Dean’s bedroom_ didn’t make him feel better, it made it feel just-disconnected enough from Dean to start thinking about _what that actually meant_.

If someone told him the bare facts without associating it with Dean, his childhood best friend who now flirts with him _via_ the receptionist to make him smile, he is fully aware how he’d fill in the blanks. He’s not naive. He _knows_ , but he’s not sure if he’s supposed to.

In the bathroom, Dean turns off the water.

Castiel turns over and hides his clenched fists in the covers, just in case he’s about to come back. He doesn’t, though, and Castiel swallows back the urge to do something and stays very still.

One day, Dean might let him help. Once the dust has settled and everything starts feeling permanent and simple. Castiel can’t begrudge him keeping his distance, now, when Castiel has been reluctant to let Dean into these other areas of his life. Dean has been incredibly brave to tell him this much, without any guarantee of how Castiel would take it. He put his faith in him.

_At the time, I was in a pretty fucked up, abusive relationship with this guy who used to be my loan shark. He, it — it was physically abusive, and, It took me a long time to get out._

He’s not sure he deserves Dean’s faith, but he is determined to earn it.

“Cas,” Dean says, voice rough with something that makes Castiel feel like his lungs have been inflated with cement, stood in the doorway of Cas’ bedroom after much longer than any of the other occasions. Dean’s never been here before, which probably hasn’t helped, and they drank a lot at the bar. He’s never explicitly said anything, but Dean has been very careful and regulated about his relationship with alcohol since that night at the Beach House. “I --- nightmare. Not gonna sleep now, so,” Dean says, with that edge to his expression, “Okay if I watch some TV?”

“Of course,” Castiel says, sitting up to blink at him. Even by just the dim light from the bathroom, he looks pale. Tired. Older than Castiel has ever seen him. “Dean...”

“I’m okay,” Dean says, “Just don’t feel like giving my subconscious a second take. Don’t worry about it.”

With all the processing time in the world, Castiel doubts he’d ever be able to _not worry_ about Dean looking like this. 

“Allright,” 

“Hey --- can I borrow your laptop?”

He’s relatively sure if Dean asked if he could empty Castiel’s bank account and set fire to his apartment, he’d agree to it right now.

“Whatever you want,” Castiel says, “The password is _Beyonce eighty six_.”

“What?” Dean asks, a trace of a smile at the corner of his lips, “I --- you’re a _Beyonce_ man.”

“Not particularly.”

“Then _why_?”

“It’s less predictable than _Dean eighty six_ ,” Castiel says, rubbing his eyes and frowning at him. “Dean.”

“You’re something else,” Dean says, actually smiling now. It’s a weak thing that doesn’t really reach his eyes, but it still settles something in Castiel’s stomach. “Night, Cas.”

Dean never comes back to bed.

He doesn’t sleep very well.

*

Dean wants to go to _a farmer’s market_ , because even in his sleep-deprived state he managed to coax out Castiel’s pre-Dean weekend routine and, apparently, he wants to recreate it. 

As boyfriend’s go, Dean is exceeding expectations. Castiel is self-aware enough to know that he is hopeless when he comes to Dean Winchester and he’d have considered whatever scraps Dean might offer as a privilege, but Dean has been objectively lovely. He is thoughtful and _fun_ and more understanding about Castiel’s headspace than he should be, given Dean is one who spent the night on Castiel’s sofa plagued by unknown horrors that he doesn’t want to talk about. 

“So, this is your regular.”

“Yes,” Castiel says, pushing open the door of the coffee shop. He feels more settled this morning, even if there’s no reason for it. Logically, he should feel worse after minimal sleep and Dean not sleeping at all but… he does not have to go back to the office again, it’s the weekend and Dean wants to go to a farmer’s market. “It _was_ ideally situated for work and ---”

“--- Castiel!” Nora says, spotting him from behind the counter and waving. There are enough people in front of them in the queue that he can’t answer her directly without raising his voice, but he offers a half-wave in her direction.

“So this is _really_ your regular,” Dean comments, “They know you.”

“Nora knows me,” Castiel says, “I --- the coffee is excellent.”

“You had me at caffeine,” Dean says, “So. How many times a week.”

“I would like to exercise my fifth amendment rights at this time,” Castiel deadpans, which wins him a smile and Dean nudging their arms together.

“Hey, Castiel,” Nora says, as they reach the front of the queue, “Can you wait a minute?”

“Yes,”

“What am I getting your friend?” Nora asks, raising an eyebrow in Dean’s direction.

“Uh, red eye, extra caffeine.” 

“Gotcha,” Nora says, smoothly moving onto the people behind him. Castiel steers Dean away slightly to make room for the other people with a hand on his arm.

“So you get _worse_ service for knowing the barista?”

“This is Nora’s shop,” Castiel says, “You’re going to be very caffeinated.”

“That’s sure as hell the plan.”

“Are you alright?”

“Peachy,” Dean says, with his old well-worn sarcasm, and then he catches himself. Exhales. “I’m okay, Cas. Honestly.”

“Allright,” Castiel says, trying to regulate his frown into the kind of expression he might have if he actually believed that Dean was okay and being very aware that he’s missed the mark slightly. Dean is walking, talking and still managing to be considerate and kind, but he is not _okay_ by Castiel’s definition. But, Dean doesn’t want him involved yet and he wants to be okay, and he probably believes that he is okay by his internal definitions. Dean has a lower bar. He knows how bad it was. Castiel is entering from stage left in the second act and trying to catch up.

He’s about to try and start a conversation about something else, anything else, when Nora ducks out behind the counter, sets down their coffee and hugs him.

“I, --- hello,”

“We were _worried_ about you,”

“This is --- uncomfortable.” Castiel says, as she steps back and fixes him with a look.

“ _Weeks_ , Castiel,” Nora says, “Do you know what I was thinking?”

“You have a very overactive imagination,” Castiel frowns, “Nora, this is Dean, my boyfriend.”

“Oh, is _that_ where you’ve been.”

“My bad,” Dean pipes in.

“Well, I quit my job and Dean lives ---”

“You _quit_?” Nora asks.

“How’s Tanya?”

“Don’t change the subject on me, Castiel,” Nora says, “You actually went and did it?”

“So,” Dean says, picking up his coffee and offering him one of his favourite Dean-smiles, “Clearly, Nora here needs an update, so I’m just gonna run an errand. Back in five.” 

“I …. Alright,” Castiel says, a little helpless as Dean claps him on the shoulder and heads for the door before he can really protest. The next thing he knows, Nora has dragged him to one of the spare tables and Castiel is telling her about kissing Dean at the Beach House and coming to help him pack up his office.

Dean really _is_ only five minutes and he comes back just as Nora is pulling out the baby photos. He sits with a hand on Castiel’s knee and tells Nora that Tanya is a cute kid, with interspersed stories of how Sam was when he learned how to walk, and then he orders another extra strong coffee to go.

He didn’t know it was important, but somehow Nora telling Dean to _‘be careful with this one, he’s special’_ quenches something in his soul. 

*

Dean is _enjoying_ the farmer’s market. He’s having lively conversations about cuts of meat and sampling types of cheese and Castiel might just be _more_ in love with him at the end of this weekend then he was at the beginning. He didn’t know there was still capacity in him to fall deeper, but Dean is a different man to the twenty five year old Castiel argued with on his stag night in a lot of ways, or at least more open and comfortable with who he is. He’s never got to see him _like this_. 

“Cas, you _tried_ this?” Dean asks, beckoning him over to a woman selling four different kinds of chutney. He _has_ tried it, but Dean has pressed a sample into his hands before he can object. “Freakin’ delicious.”

“Yes,” Castiel agrees, “I was thinking….” Castiel begins, feeling slightly apprehensive for no real reason. “Kevin. You were talking to him about some game last night.”

“Kevin,” Dean says, “Nerdy kid. Skyrim fan.”

“I don’t know what that is.”

“That’s cause you got laid in high school,” Dean says, then turns and gives him a half smile, “Just about, anyway. So, Kevin.”

“He likes the same board games.”

“Oh yeah,” Dean says, “Yeah, invite him on Wednesday. That’s a great idea. He and Charlie can geek out over World of Warcraft, get her off my back. And Sammy could use some non-dick lawyer buddies.”

“You wouldn’t mind.”

“Nope,” Dean says, taking his hand and squeezing if for a moment, brushing his thumb over Castiel’s knuckles. “Cas. I actively want you to. You don’t invite Kevin, I’ll hunt him down and contact him myself and I’m pretty sure that could be construed as harassment.” 

“He’s still an associate,” Castiel says, “But very good at research. I’d recommend settling, but I’m sure you could find someone to represent you if it goes to trial.”

“ _Find someone_ ,” Dean says, “My boyfriend’s a Harvard educated lawyer and you’re gonna leave me scrambling around the phone book for an attorney.”

“I quit,” Castiel says, “Perhaps your Columbia educated brother. It will be next Wednesday.”

“You... _again_?” Dean says, “How long this week.”

“Two nights,” Castiel says, “I’m nearly finished, Dean.”

“Okay,” Dean says, “Need you to pick out some wine to go with dinner for tonight, cause I’ve got no clue. Red.”

“You’re cooking,”

“Yep,” Dean says, “Your kitchen is _crying out_ for a home cooked meal.”

“Date night.”

“We can go to that restaurant next week.”

“If _you’re cooking_ ,” Castiel says, “And this is our delayed date from last night, I should be paying for these groceries.”

Dean looks at him for a moment, with half an eyebrow raised and Castiel thinks he’s about to refuse, or make some comment and Castiel will have burst this easy bubble for something inane and unimportant.

“Allright,” He says, casually enough that Castiel could kiss him, “Beef bourguignon.”

“You can cook that?” 

“Got no clue,” Dean says, “But that guy says his braising steak is perfect for it, so let’s find out.”

“You _cook_ ,” Castiel smiles, “You’re very eligible. I might keep you.”

“‘Cause before you were fifty fifty about whether you wanted to date me.”

“Sixty forty,” Castiel says, “You got an extra ten for leaving work early to meet me at my office.”

Dean smiles, which makes approximately everything that's ever happened in Castiel’s life worth it, and then he leans forward to kiss him.

“Eighty twenty.” Castiel says, which wins him another brief kiss, before Dean laughs - _Castiel can make him laugh -_ , pockets his hands and starts winding his way between stalls. “The steak is that way.” Castiel says, after he’s stuttered into motion to follow him.

“Yep,” Dean agrees,“But that guy’s selling house plants.”

*

When he moved to college, Dean made him a mixed tape of songs he used to play in the car and Castiel didn’t listen to it for six months, because thinking about it made him ache. He’d long since accepted that Dean was a doomed mission: that his inconvenient feelings, and Dean’s underlying discomfort with them, would continue to make their old friendship complicated and strained. Listening to a string of mullet rock, Metallica and an unexpected Beetles entry from hundreds of miles away was only ever going to hurt. When he finally listened to it (after Gabriel first threatened to leave Milton & Milton and Castiel was dragged into a family argument and he felt lonelier than he had in years), he was proved right. He sat in his car and listened to these songs that Dean had picked out, put together and gifted him and it felt like it was peeling off his skin. An _almost_ romantic gesture that was never going to be what he wanted, but he called Dean anyway, and Dean answered and they talked for the length of the tape, and Dean _almost_ said he missed him. 

Castiel thought that was all that he’d ever get and he weighed that up against the fact that it was more than _most_ people got from Dean and decided it was worth it. He decided that Dean’s loyalty was worth the aftertaste of longing and frustration. He reminded himself that Dean never _asked him_ to feel like this and didn’t mean to be cruel, with his mixed tape and his half-sentiments. 

Somewhere, he has that mixed tape. He tried to give it back, once, and Dean’s expression turned hard and closed off. _It was a gift, Cas_ He said, like Castiel didn’t _know_ that. Like it wasn’t the best gift he’d ever been given.

Now, Dean is braising beef in wine and arguing with him about where he should keep his newly gifted spider plant.

“Coffee table, man.”

“If it’s in the kitchen I might remember to water it.”

“You’ll _over_ water it.”

“Dean,” Castiel says, “I am aware of the dangers of over watering.”

“I _know_ ,” Dean smirks, “Saw you writing freaking notes, you nerd.”

“I don’t want to kill your gift.”

“You better not,” Dean says, “I’ve seen those chick flicks. This plant represents our relationship, now. You kill it, we’ve gotta problem.”

“This is a lot of pressure.” Castiel says, watching as Dean starts chopping onions. He _wanted_ this: Dean making himself at home in Castiel’s apartment, walking around like he’s entitled to be there, cooking things that smell much better than anything Castiel’s ever cooked and, apparently, buying him house plants. He can’t really remember why he put it off. “At least I can’t kill the magnet.”

“ _Bottle opener_ magnet ,” Dean says, “Practical, and it makes it look like you’ve actually lived in the place for more than five freaking minutes.”

“It has a bee on.”

“Yeah, well. Saw your heart eyes at the honey-guy,”

“His honey _is_ delicious,” Castiel says, watching as Dean moves around the kitchen, “You’re very sweet.”

“ _Sweet_?” Dean scoffs, “I’m a badass.”

“That too,” Castiel smiles, taking a sip of his wine and feeling the bone-deep kind of warmth that he usually associates with childhood-nostalgia. This has been a very good day. Good enough to be almost-cathartic. To tease out old splinters he didn’t know he was still carrying around. “Do you have any more plans to make my apartment more homely, or is the fridge magnet and the plant sufficient?”

“Yeah, actually,” Dean says, tossing the onions in the pan and stirring, “This should be okay for a minute. Course, this last part only works out if you own a freaking hammer, which given the rest of this place…” Dean says, setting down the wooden spoon to head back out into the main living space of his apartment, pausing at his jacket to dig something out of his pocket.

“My kitchen equipment is adequate, Dean.” Castiel says, following him back out.

“ _Do_ you own a hammer?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel admits, as Dean turns over the palm of his hand to reveal… picture hooks. “What are you hanging on my wall?”

“I ain’t doing anything,” Dean says, crossing over to the other side of his coffee table and his box of belongings from the office, pulling out his Harvard diploma with more care that Castiel would have ever expected. “Your call, Cas, I’m just giving you the option.”

And --- Castiel _has no idea what he’s doing_.

Dean is supposed to _dislike_ this part of his life. He’s supposed to get distant and tight-lipped whenever Castiel’s family, or his career, comes up. He’s supposed to grasp onto the fact that Castiel has quit like he wouldn’t want Castiel if he hadn’t _because that’s what Castiel was expecting_. But he’s…. He’s persuading him to attend leaving drinks with his colleagues and he’s _buying things for Castiel’s apartment_ and cooking dinner and holding these damnable picture hooks and his law degree in his hands like they’re precious. 

_This_ was Dean’s five minute errand this morning. Right after being awake all night due to his history of trauma, Dean went to buy him picture hooks. 

Castiel sits down heavily on the edge of the sofa.

“Cas,” Dean says, voice dropping low, “Look, man, I didn’t…”

“This weekend is very confusing.”

“Gonna take the food off the heat,” Dean says, in that same soft voice, “Then… we’re gonna talk.”

Castiel spends the few moments that Dean spends in the kitchen staring at his wine, trying to work out how he feels. He’s never been very good at that. He’s always tried to reason with his emotions but never quite managed to curb the edge of feeling them, which is normally when he starts to make mistakes.

“Figured this weekend would be a lot,” Dean says, sitting down next to him, close enough that their knees touch. “Finishing up work here. Was trying to make this _better_ , and I just…”

“You have,” Castiel says, his voice coming out rougher than he expected to, “You’ve been… incredible.”

“Cas,” Dean says, “You’re upset. I shouldn’t’ve pushed. I just --- Cas, you worked so damn hard for that thing.”

“You _didn’t want_ me to go to Harvard.”

“That’s,” Dean begins, “Cas, I did and didn’t want a lot of crap, but mostly --- mostly, I wanted _you_ and all of _that_ just felt like more reasons why I wasn’t good enough for you.”

It is so very bizarre to hear these things from Dean, who Castiel has long since considered the greatest man he’s ever met. 

“ _Dean_ , you are ---”

“--- Cas, I’m not digging for a compliment, here,” Dean says, “I _know_ you never thought like that, now. Knew that _then_ , I guess, but it just… seemed like you just fit right into that life and I’m always gonna feel like cheap white trash in one of your corporate boardrooms, but --- fuck, Cas, I don’t want you exoercising your life of anything lawyer-ish because I’ve got a freakin’ complex.”

“That’s not happening,” Castiel frowns, “Dean, I’ve been trying to _get out_ for years. I quit _before_ we started this relationship.”

“Yeah, I know,” Dean says, “But you kept trying to keep me out and it was making me antsy, but. I’m —- I gotta say, Cas. I’m a little relieved. You were acting like you didn’t have anyone, but… you’ve got people in your corner.”

“I _had_ colleagues.”

“Colleagues, Nora, the guy who keeps the bees.”

“Nora sells me coffee.”

“You babysit her kid,” Dean says, “You’re friends, Cas. You’ve just been --- isolating yourself.”

“I don’t know why I’ve been doing that,” Castiel says, “Dean, I don’t know what _I’m doing_.”

“Cas, no one knows what the fuck they’re doing,” Dean says, commisatory, gentle, “But --- you _gotta_ talk to your damn friends. I’ve _done_ the cutting yourself off from people who care about you thing. Didn’t end well and it’s hard freakin’ work trying to start over. I, just… you don’t want me to be the only person in your life, Cas, because I’ve got a fuck-ton of baggage and I’m not always the easiest to be around.”

“You think I’m a mess.”

“No,” Dean says, heavily, “Honestly, I think you’re a little depressed.” Castiel blinks at his glass of wine with something thick and painful at the back of his throat. “But what the hell do I know about anything? Cas, I… I love you,” Dean says, and the words still feel a little unfamiliar out loud. Dean doesn’t _say_ them very often. He buys him picture hooks and magnetic bee bottle openers, and he predicts Castiel’s emotions long before Castiel has worked out that he’s having them and he cooks dinner. He doesn’t often use his words. “The whole package. I’m talking douchebag lawyer friends, ivy leave education, dumbass well-intentioned lawsuits, empty apartment. I just love you, no strings attached, but I’m not naive enough to think that changes the fact that you’re grieving and working out what you wanna do. That’s okay. I don’t need you to be anything else.” 

He’s not sure if he’s ever deserved Dean’s praise less. 

“I made mistakes, Dean.”

“You’re _human_. You’ve gotta forgive yourself, at some point.”

“How?”

“No clue,” Dean says, “But making yourself miserable won’t make you feel less guilty, so. Let yourself have a life, Cas. Give yourself a break. Celebrate the wins.” 

“Hang my diploma on the wall,” Castiel adds, forehead creased as he looks at him. Dean offers an encouraging _if you want_ shrug and Castiel looks back at his knees. 

He still doesn’t know what he’s doing. In two weeks, he’ll be finished in New York and then he’ll have to find _something_ to do with his time, but Dean loves him. Dean _loves him_.

“Cas?” Dean asks, as Castiel stands up and heads back to the kitchen. “What —?”

“I’m going to find my hammer.” Castiel says, and Dean smiles like everything is simple and nothing bad has ever happened to him. 

Dinner is excellent.

*

The first time he truly saw Dean relax was at the Beach House.

At school, there was always a tightly wound ball of anxiety and teenager-anger carried in the line of his shoulders and his attitude to authority figures. He was guarded and mouthy and liable to lash out if you said the wrong things at the wrong time (somehow, Castiel earned his loyalty which carried with a sort of protection, which meant mostly Dean snapped at other people on Castiel’s behalf). When he came to the Milton House, he was always unnervingly polite to Naomi and visibly uncomfortable, and Castiel never saw him anything but tense in front of John Winchester. There were _moments_ when Dean dropped the act, but then he’d always gather everything back into himself and make another bad joke.

That first summer, he saw Dean’s walls crumble. By the third, Castiel was valiantly pretending not to be checking him out as he shed his shirt and stretched out on the sand, shoulders freckling deliciously in the sun. He’d sit there, no bravado, no walls, no risk of anger spilling out of nowhere and it was… transfixing. He realised that he loved him in one of those moments, where Dean was so magnetically happy, so carefree, and everything in Castiel’s chest screamed out that _Castiel should make him that happy, always, without condition._

Dean with his face half buried into one of Castiel’s pillows, stretched out on top of his bed, naked and looking remarkably peaceful is even better. He’s _allowed_ to look, now. He’s allowed to feel distinctly satisfied that he put that expression of Dean’s face. That, even though Dean spent last night not-sleeping on his sofa, he is exquisitely _sated_ and _beautiful_ right now, and Castiel contributed to that.

“Dean,” Castiel says, absently running the back of his knuckles over the ridges of his spines. Castiel can tell by his breathing that he’s still awake, even if it’s a close thing. He _should_ let him sleep, but he doesn’t want the day to end yet. “Tell me about losing your virginity.”

Dean shifts his head to look at him, arching an eyebrow. “You know about that.”

“Some of it,” Castiel says, “At the time, hearing about it made me want to rip my heart out. I want to hear it now.”

“Alright,” Dean exhales, turning a little more and half shutting his eyes. Most of his Beach House freckles have started to fade, now. He’d have more, if he hadn’t spent the first few days hiding his scars until they could have the conversation about it, but as is they’re becoming faint. “Carmen Porter,” Dean says, “We’d been --- fooling around for a couple of months and we’d cut school.”

“There was a math test.” 

“Figures you’d remember the test,” Dean says, stretching slightly. “Wasn’t about that, anyway. _You_ helped me study for the test. Had a better chance at passing that than the make-up assignment.”

“Which I also helped you with.”

“Guess you being pissed about that is making a lot more sense,” Dean says, “ _She_ wanted to cut class. Her folks were splitting up and she needed to get the hell out of there,” Dean continues, and… this part of the story is new. He didn’t know that. He remembers Dean saying very little _about_ Carmen and Castiel had assumed that their relationship was superficial. Physical. “And, hell, not like I didn’t know what that _felt_ like. She was having a bad day and she wanted to go, so we left. Dad was out of town, so we went over to my place. And, I dunno, guess it had been on the cards for a while.”

“Had you talked about it?”

“As much as two angry fifteen year old kids talk about that kind of thing,” Dean says, “It was… implied, mostly. Her idea. She was scared.”

“Of losing her virginity?”

“Probably,” Dean says, “Who isn’t a little scared about that? But she didn’t act it, definitely didn’t admit it. Carmen was tough. I meant she was scared about the stuff with her parents. Wanted to be in control of something.”

“ _You_ were scared.” Castiel says, tilting his head at him. He’s never really thought of Dean as _scared_ of anything, particularly about something like this. He was always… confident. Sure of his decisions. 

“Uh, yeah,” Dean says, “Didn’t know what the fuck I was doing.”

“You definitely know what you’re doing _now_.”

“Thanks,” Deans smiles, with a half laugh, “We shared one of Dad’s beers and slept together in that tiny ass single bed… and after she told me about her Mom’s new boyfriend and I told her Dad hadn’t been home for a week, then I walked her home,” Dean says, “She —- she was good people, Carmen.”

“She moved.”

“Yeah, a couple of weeks later. They told her that day.”

“Did she tell you that was why?”

“No,” Dean says, “We didn’t really talk specifics, much.”

“You liked her,” Castiel says. He never asked that at the time, because he didn’t want to know the answer. Either answer had the ability to get their hooks in and hurt, so he opted for ignorance. At the time, he’d been aloof and cold as Dean had half-told him about it, but now… he’s glad. Glad that Carmen understood some of his pain and listened to him. Glad that hearing about this doesn’t hurt, anymore. Glad that he can hear the story with Dean naked and relaxed. 

“Cas, I was fifteen and she let me see her naked,” Dean says, “Yeah, I liked her.”

“Hmm.” Castiel says, watching the line of Dean’s spine as Dean stretches, slightly. Most of his scars are on his torso which means, lying on his front like this, he might never have met Alastair.

“Now I’ve got a question for you,” Dean says, turning onto his side and looking at him.

“Okay.” 

“How would you feel,” Dean says, with something a little like nervousness playing at the corner of his lips. “‘Bout both of us getting tested, ditching the condoms.” 

Dean is _perfect._ He’s strong and gorgeous and cooks beef bourguignon and answers Castiel’s inane questions, even though he must be exhausted. 

“Yes,” Castiel says, leaning forward to kiss him because it’s imperative that he kisses him, immediately, and pulls back to watch Dean’s nervousness dissolve into a smile. Then, of course, something _else_ occurs to him, and… “Did,” he begins, then cuts himself off. He doesn’t want to ruin the moment, except —

—- Dean knows him very well. 

“No,” Dean says heavily, that peaceful expression evaporated, “Alastair was always very _safety first_. Least about his own skin, which is something, I guess.” 

He didn’t mean to bring it up. He didn’t _mean_ to chase away Dean’s peace by reminding him of anything to do with _that_ , particularly right now. 

“Dean,” Castiel says, forehead creased. “My final meeting in New York is on the second.”

“Week after next, second?” 

“Yes,”

“Huh. That’s soon.”

“Yes,” Castiel agrees, “ I have to return my laptop, my phone and my work pass, and there’s my other office. You --- you probably have to work and I know how you feel about aircraft, but. They do cover partner’s on expenses, and...”

“You want me to come?” Dean asks, scanning over Castiel’s expression with care and precision. “Cas, if you want me there, then I’ll be there.”

“I --- yes,” Castiel says. He wasn’t intending to be that direct, but… He doesn’t want to do it alone. He doesn’t _want_ to deal with Crowley and the complicated, difficult feelings about turning his back on the firm. He doesn’t _want_ anything to do with them… but it was his sanctuary, for a while. His chance to _not_ be swept into Milton & Milton. To have an approximation of his own path, even though it got twisted and ruined by Castiel’s hubris, and his prideful need to feel like he’d _made a difference_. Leaving his office here was more difficult than he expected, but closing the chapter on his life in New York is it’s own kind of misery. He _does not want_ to do it alone. “I want you to come with me.”

“Okay,” Dean says, like it’s simple, like Dean isn’t _miraculous_. “I’ll talk to Bobby in the morning.”

“I love you.”

“Roger that,” Dean says, sitting up, stretching and reaching for the sheets that wound up tangled round their feet earlier and pulling them back over his legs. “Also need to freaking _sleep_ , stat. So…”

“Yes,” Castiel agrees, as Dean rolls into his space and throws an arm casually over his waist. “We can talk in the morning.”

Dean hums his agreement into Castiel's neck and falls asleep at some point between one breath and another. It’s early enough that Castiel lays awake in his arms for quite some time, but listening to Dean breathe is enthralling enough that he doesn’t really care, he just listens, and listens. 

*

On Sunday, Dean leaves early-afternoon. 

The apartment is oddly quiet without him and all the loose ends that have been haunting him for weeks start feeling bigger and more important again, like all the _unknowns_ and _space_ might still swallow him whole. He’s just turning the TV on to block out some of the silence when he spots his laptop where Dean left it on Friday night and… and he opens it up out of curiosity and the need for distraction, more than anything else. Dean left the browser open on the ‘confirmation’ of an order of some photo-printing company. He listed the shipping address as Castiel’s apartment and he follows the link to ‘review order’ because…. 

Dean has ordered him photos and photo frames. He spent the night he was too tormented by nightmares to sleep going through Castiel’s photos. There’s a couple from the Beach House, one from this year of him and Dean, and another of them as teenagers. There’s a photo of Castiel with Samandriel, his wife and kids. Gabriel and Castiel. Castiel and Meg. The last Milton family portrait, his graduation from Harvard Law, from college, from _high school_. Dean spent the night on this. He trawled through these pictures to remind Castiel of all these moments and memories. 

Castiel shuts his laptop and pulls up his family WhatsApp. He never _actually_ told any of them about Dean, although he’s relatively sure that they all know. Gabriel just guessed when he arrived to find Sam had gone home and he assumes that Gabriel filled in Anna and Samandriel when they arrived at the Beach House, because they seemed entirely nonplussed when Castiel delivered Dean coffee with a kiss. Although Gabriel and Anna aren’t actually regularly speaking to the rest of his siblings (as far as he’s aware), Samandriel is affable enough that he’s probably spoken to all of them. They probably _know_ , but this is the best thing that’s ever happened to him, and he’s done a very poor job of showing that. He’s done a very poor job at _celebrating the wins_. He has been isolating himself. He has been pretending he doesn’t have a family, because they are complicated and confusing and frustrating, but —- 

He can do better than that. 

He needs to do better. 

Castiel types _‘by the way, I’m dating Dean Winchester_ ' and sends it before he can talk himself out of it, then messages Meg to see if she’s free for lunch tomorrow and texts Dean to tell him he’s _exceptionally sweet_ before the replies from his siblings start to come in. 


	5. Home, the Milton House, hell

“So, how is Cas?” Sam asks, passing his half drunk beer from one hand to the other and raising his eyebrow at him. They’ve covered the other stuff, from jobs, to Sam’s lack of life and Dean’s messed up head, so it figures Cas was the next topic of conversation.

“He’s _editing his Dad’s books_.” 

“Wow.” 

“Yep,” Dean says, “He’s —- adjusting.” 

“He’s struggling.” 

“Yeah,” Dean concedes, because Sam isn’t _wrong_. He’s pretty sure that spending six hours a day reading his late father’s attempts at breaking into _writing_ isn’t a sign that he’s a-okay, but Dean wasn’t really expecting to be. Doing _something_ is an improvement on the first week of Netflix-in-a-blanket. He’ll take the book-edits. “He’s struggling, but…. He’ll be okay.” 

“You’re smiling.” Sam says, raising his eyebrows and setting down his beer with a shit-eating grin. 

“I’m _not_ smiling.” 

“You can’t even stop enough to say that,” Sam says, “You’re _happy_.” 

“Oh screw you, Sammy.” 

“Your boyfriend’s editing crappy YA novels, and you’re _happy_ about it.” 

“Actually, not that crappy,” Dean says, “Chuck wasn’t a bad writer, if you ignore his massive ego.” 

“You’ve been _reading_ his Dad’s books?” 

“He’s been editing them, Sam. Boyfriend. Just doing my duty.” 

“You’re a sap,” Sam says, looking more self satisfied than Dean’s seen him in a damn long time… and, it’s kinda nice to put that expression on his face. Mostly, Dean’s spent the last few years of his life causing Sam worry and stress, so to have Sam _mocking him_ is a massive goddamn improvement, especially when it’s about something he’s actually pretty happy about. Sam can mock him about being a sap all he likes, because Dean could not actually give a shit. 

He wanted to be _good_ at this boyfriend-stuff, but Cas makes it shockingly easy. He gets all gooey-eyed and happy about such basic human decency that it all kinda feels a little bittersweet, but Cas has always deserved someone to look out for him, to come to New York on his sucky final business trip, breakfast in bed, to read over his freaking father's books. 

“Guy can’t be happy about getting to be with the love of his life?” Dean asks, a lot more candid than he’s been about his feelings probably _ever_ , but --- this is the best thing to happen to him in approximately his whole life, and…. If Dean’s gonna be honest about all the crap, he might as well be honest about the good parts too. 

Sam’s listened to the nightmares and the panic attacks and the barbed not-truths that Dean believed about himself, so Dean can keep prizing open his chest and goddamn talking about it now there’s something good to say. Sam deserves that from him. 

“Yeah. You can,” Sam says, looking at him with his expression wide and curious, “Just not used to it.” 

“Sam,” Dean says, setting down his beer and looking his brother dead in the eye, “Get used to it.” 

For a few long moments, Sam just looks at him. 

They never used to talk like this. Before Alastair, he wouldn’t have fucking dreamed about being so open about his _feelings_ , let alone about something like this which, if he picks at it too hard, still has the ability to make him feel insecure and a little terrified of everything. For most of his life, _caring about people this much_ mostly just made him hurt, but now… now, things are starting to work out. Even if they’re still working everything out, he’s pretty confident that they _will_ work it out because he’s sure, now, that Castiel loves him. 

_Cas loves him_. 

“Okay,” Sam says, standing up. 

“ _Okay_?” Dean repeats, twisting to watch Sam walking across his apartment, “That’s it? Sam, you tried to make me hug out my feelings after every freaking afterschool special and now, that’s it? We’re done.” 

“Didn’t know you were looking for someone to braid your hair, Dean,” Sam says, pulling a couple of glasses out of Dean’s cupboard. “But no, that’s not _it_ , I figured that was something worth drinking to.” 

“Allright.” Dean says, as Sam pulls out a bottle of Dean’s scotch and wanders back over, with his gigantor limbs and this smile that Dean wants to see a lot more of. Sam’s always taken everything too seriously. He works too hard and he worries too much, but --- he looks happy right now and Dean’s gonna chalk all of this up to a massive fucking win. “You call _that_ a drink?” Dean asks, as Sam presses the world’s smallest glass of whiskey into his hands and sets his own on the coffee table. 

“I’m driving and given you’ve been working on the same beer for the last three hours, I figure you’re not really drinking right now,” Sam throws back, because of-freaking-course he’d notice that. 

“Might as well toast using kool-aid.” 

Generally, Dean’s been a little stricter on the alcohol-thing since Cas has been in the picture, because he’s still working out his equilibrium with it all. It’s going _good_. Good enough that Dean’s dropped back down to monthly therapy, partly cause he’d rather spend his Tuesday evenings with his damn boyfriend than some paid professional and partly because he was running out of shit to say. Yeah, there’s stuff to navigate (he’s pretty sure Cas is going to want to know _more_ about all of it eventually, given he can count the number of actual conversations they’ve had about it on one hand: they’ve gone over a lot of the rest of their old ground, but Cas is so fucking respectful that he took Dean’s ‘stay out of it’ as gospel)... and maybe it’s _naieve_ , but it kinda feels like he can handle it. 

“Do you _have_ kool aid?” 

“No,” Dean says, “But I’ve got some kid-beer, if you wanna stay for another drink.” 

He’s dragged his head out of the gutter on _hope_ and to get that look off Sam’s face, so Dean’s pretty sure he can navigate the rest of it when his little brother is happily mocking him for being a sap, when Bobby’s started expecting Cas for Sunday lunch and when Castiel looks a bit less burdened by the whole freaking world with every week that goes by. 

Yesterday, Dean used his lunch break to get another key cut for his apartment. The guy’s started volunteering at some soup kitchen nearby and editing Chuck’s books from Dean’s sofa. It’s freaking _great_ to have him around more --- Dean didn’t know it was possible for an hour’s drive to feel so godamn long --- but it’s a logistical nightmare. Anyway, he _wants_ Cas to have his own key. 

He’s never done that before. He’s never even _considered_ it. 

And that _definitely_ warrants a proper damn drink. 

“Sounds good,” Sam says, and god bless Sam for not making a big deal out of the alcohol-free beer, thing, given that Dean is of the general belief that they’re dick-ish. 

“Back of the fridge,” Dean says, “And, no, I got no goddamn idea what’s in the Disney princess tupperware.” 

“Cas?” 

“Freakin’ hope so,” Dean says, “And, Sammy, bring the bottle.” 

“Ah-ha” Sam says, rolling his eyes. He dutifully brings it and sets it on the coffee table, though, sitting down heavily and holding his glass aloft. “Here’s to Chuck’s books and my brother, who’s whipped by a nerdy guy in a trench coat.” 

“Sometimes, he takes it off.” 

“Allright, I’m done,” Sam says, rolling his eyes and half-smiling at his empty glass. “I’m happy for you, but I _really_ don’t need the visual.” 

“Awh, Sammy,” Dean says, shifting the plates on the coffee table to make room to rest his feet, “If it helps, _sometimes he keeps it on_.” 

“Stopping listening now,” Sam counters, picking up the remote and wracking the volume up. “ _Can’t hear you_.” 

“Just the trench coat and the tie. Good times,” Dean says, mostly just to see whether Sam’s general respect for the neighbours will outweigh his desire to make his point. He slows, slightly, but he still increases the volume by another four levels. “In the back of the Impala. Parked outside your office, in the middle of the day.” 

“Shut up,” Sam says, finally giving up his volume-crusade at ninety, and turning it back down to acceptable levels with an eye roll. He’s still smiling as Dean laughs, though, and all things considered, today is a really fucking excellent day. “Next episode?” 

“Roger that,” Dean says, adding a measure of scotch into his glass and settling back on the sofa. 

Castiel turns up halfway through their first episode, letting himself in with Dean’s key and pausing in the doorway to the room. It probably would have been easier for Dean to fess-up to having gotten an extra key cut earlier, given that the logistics meant that Cas wound up late for Meg as he had to wait for Dean to get back from work to let Dean in and take the key and Dean had to change his dinner with Sam to be dinner _here_ , even though it was Sam’s turn. Still, he didn’t want it to be something that just got lost in the convenience of it all, or for Cas to think he was doing it out of practicality. It _is_ practical, but it’s also a big deal. 

They did all of this too-slow and too-fast and Dean doesn’t want them to miss their _firsts_ just because they’ve known each other for twenty years. 

“Hello,” Castiel says, “I —- apologies for disrupting. How are you, Sam?” 

“Good thanks,” Sam says, “Don’t worry about it. Join us.” 

Today is a _fucking excellent day_. 

“You wanna drink?” Dean asks, as Cas slumps down on the sofa next to him, having kicked off his shoes but left on his trench coat. He should probably be used to Cas being so casual with their personal space, now, but there’s still something fucking miraculous about _ex-corporate-lawyer-Cas_ ’s sock clad foot nestled up against Dean’s ankle. God, he loves him. 

“Ah, no,” Castiel says, voice extra whisky-rough and hot. “I’ve drunk too much already.” 

“D’you —- you _drive_?” Dean asks, arching an eyebrow in concern. Now that he’s mentioned it, Cas does look a little drunk. Looser than normal, with a behead that looks too disastrous to be accidental. 

“No, Meg said _a_ drink was unacceptable,” Castiel says, “I got a cab. I’ll pick my car up tomorrow.” 

“Huh,” Dean says, “Any luck, someone will set fire to it overnight.” 

“My car isn’t _crappy_ ,” Castiel says, with enough sarcastic-heat that Dean can’t really help smirking at him. 

“Sure, Cas,” Dean says, “You have a good time?” 

“Yes,” Cas says, smiling back at him like he’s the seventh wonder of the world and…. and Dean’s suddenly very aware of how close he’s sitting, given Sam is _right_ there. 

Cas is usually a little _less_ intense in front of other people. 

Dean’s yet to work out if that’s for Dean’s benefit, or if that’s just Cas. 

He’s _seen_ Cas with most of his ex-boyfriend’s and he was always… reserved, which was probably a good thing. If Dean had to watch him _hold hands_ with any of the raging douchebags that Cas decided to date, he probably would have been even more of a jerk than he was at the time. He was _pretty private_ , but… he also though Dean was low-key homophobic _and_ was trying to get a rise out of him, to get that satisfying slither of jealousy that he then second guessed away when Dean delivered. So Dean’s got no idea, really, if Cas sits a little further away and doesn’t usually kiss him in front of his family is because of _Dean_ and his baggage (cause, hell, Dean’s not really sure how he’d feel about that, given the shit that his family like to give him about ‘the looks’) or if that’s just how Castiel operates. 

Either way, apparently it _doesn’t apply_ after drinking however-much with Meg, and finding Sam in Dean’s apartment. 

“Good,” Dean says, as Cas keeps _looking_ at him. 

“Guess I know why Cas’ birthday cleared up some things.” Sam comments, eyebrow arched at his drink. 

He still remembers Cas being _embarrassed_ over Dean bringing that up, although he has no freaking idea _why_ , given Dean’s definitely the one who was nearest to flirting. He doesn’t need freaking Sam mocking Cas for it, though, so he’s just about to reach for the nearest non-lethal thing he can throw at his brother to shut him the fuck up. He doesn’t quite make it, though, because Cas leans forwards and kisses him full on the mouth. 

It’s a _good_ kiss. A really fucking excellent kiss. A definitely-not PG-13 kinda kiss. 

“You were right,” Cas says, pulling back, “Scarring your brother for life is fun.” 

_It’s a really excellent day_. 

“Yeah, I’m gonna get you some coffee,” Dean says, squeezing Cas’ knee before standing up. 

“Make that two,” Sam pipes up, “And you’re gross, by the way.” 

“Thanks, Sammy,” Dean comments, flicking on the coffee pot. 

“So, big weekend plans?” 

“Hmm,” Castiel says, “Naomi is redecorating. I am _required_ to clear out the rest of my belongings by tomorrow.” 

“So you’re headed to the Milton house.” 

“Yup,” Dean says, “The old homestead.” 

“You could go back to our school,” Sam says, “Recreate your little meet cute.” 

“Oh, you’re hilarious,” Dean says. 

“On balance,” Castiel says, “It was worth giving you that pen.” 

“No way. Not having you two ganging up on me,” Dean says, getting out two mugs, “Oh yeah, what’s with the freaking Disney tupperware?” 

“Leftover soup from the soup kitchen,” Castiel says, “I made it.” 

“ _You_ made it?” 

“I --- assisted,” Castiel says, sitting up a little straighter as Dean comes back with two mugs of coffee. “I chopped and stirred.” 

“What kind of soup?” Sam asks, that slightly-smug smile on his face. 

“Some sort of vegetable.” 

“Take it you’re not the master chef of the outfit,” Dean says, sitting back down, with Cas giving him just enough space to do so and then somehow absorbing it again, so that they’re thigh-to-thigh, hip-to-hip. 

“Putting me in charge would be a great error in judgement,” Cas returns, “Thank you for the coffee. I --- what _is_ this?” 

“Game of thrones,” Sam supplies, “Got about twenty minutes left.” 

“I don’t understand,” Cas says, after five minutes of intense-watching. 

“Yeah,” Dean says, clapping a hand on his knee, “Don’t think I could catch you up if you were sober. Roll with it.” 

“Allright,” Cas agrees and watches the rest of it with unblinking-head-titled concentration. 

He’s a big advocate of celebrating the wins and this, right here, is the fucking jackpot. 

* 

Cas a little drunk is basically brilliant, because he spends a lot of time tripping over his inhibitions, overthinking, being harder on himself than anyone has a right too. After a couple of drinks, he moves less like he’s intellectualised all of it first. He’s confident. Decisive. It’s not like Dean hasn’t seen glimpses of that the rest of the time —- because, as it turns out, Cas is definitely _not_ stoic and reserved when it comes to sex, he’s freaking awesome, totally shameless and really, really into anything that makes Dean feel good —- but, Cas being candid with his words and vocalised more of the stuff in his head is always a win. He’s cute. Less impenetrable. 

“Hmm,” Castiel hums as he crawls into bed in one of Dean’s t-shirts, taking hold of Dean’s hands to maneuver him into wrapping his arms around him. Dean’s a-okay with that, anyway, because Cas is warm and perfect “This is excellent.” 

“Yeah?” Dean breathes into Cas’ neck. 

“Yes,” Castiel affirms, “I like it when you hold me.” 

“You’re a _spooning_ guy, huh?” 

“I don’t understand that term,” Castiel says, “But --- _yes_. Meg says I am _smitten_.” 

“Can live with that,” Dean exhales, tightening his hold on his waist, “ _This_ is spooning. Pro-tip, you’re the little spoon. You live under a rock, or something?” 

“I have _spooned_ ,” Cas says, serious enough that it pulls at the corners of his lip into a smile. It’s twinged with the concept of Cas curled up in bed with someone else, which is the kind of visual that makes him want to set fire to something. He _knows_ it happened, he just doesn’t really wanna think about it. “I didn’t know the term.” 

“Always looking for teachable moments.” 

“Yes,” Cas agrees, the word rough and low, “I like it when you teach me things.” 

“Happy to help.” 

“Dean,” Castiel says, “Naomi hates you.” 

“Yeah,” Dean mutters into his neck, “I remember.” 

“She thinks you seduced me into quitting my job and negating my duty and ruining my life.” 

“I am pretty seductive,” Dean says, rolling his hips slightly because he’s an asshole and he lives to cheapen the moment. Castiel twists in his arms and smiles at him, though, with his edges worn away by alcohol and intimacy. 

“True.” 

“Don’t give a crap about what Naomi thinks of anything,” Dean says, “Don’t worry about it.” 

“Your arms are very pleasing,” Cas says, smoothing his fingers over his bicep and not-blinking at him, all blue stares and fucking _cute_. “You’re good at this.” 

“ _Spooning_? Cause it ain’t rocket science, sunshine.” 

“Hmm, no,” Cas counters, running a thumb over the rough of Dean’s cheek before dropping it and shutting his eyes. “Being my boyfriend.” 

“Well,” Dean says, “Got a pretty good incentive.” 

“You mean me,” Cas deadpans, and it’s almost a question. 

“Bingo,” Dean half-whispers into his earlobe, “How you doing, Cas?” 

“Very comfortably.” 

“No,” Dean says, “I mean, you… You said you were unhappy.” 

“ _This_ makes me very happy.” 

“Not my question,” Dean says and… maybe he shouldn’t ask right now, given Cas has been drinking. He’s tried to give him some time. He’s _trying_ , but he’s not sure he’d give himself as many boyfriend points as Cas seems inclined to and he worries. “It’s, it’s --- okay.” 

“I am _happier_ ,” Cas says, curled against Dean’s side with his fingers tangled in Dean’s bedsheets and --- 

He’ll take it. 

* 

The Milton House has always been intimidatingly large, with its double-staircases and it’s garages, plural. Dean grew up sharing a motel bed with his little brother, cheap frozen pizza and stealing christmas presents from gas stations, so the thought of a family of _ten kids_ each having their own room always struck him as a little crazy. 

Still, he liked Castiel’s bedroom. He didn’t really _have_ his own space, but Cas’ childhood felt almost like his own by proxy. He was pretty unhappy, back then, but… bumming around in Cas’ room, watching dumb TV and hanging out were the good parts of it all. Yeah, things got… complicated and difficult, but Cas was still his solace from _Dad_ and _Sam_ and school and all of those other things that twisted up in his chest and made him feel like crap. 

It hasn’t changed much in the last fifteen years. There’s less _stuff_ , sure, but there’s still an old picture of them at fifteen or so tacked up above his desk. A Star Wars poster Dean’s pretty sure he talked him into buying. Cream walls and dark blue carpet. An old stack of notebooks on the desk. 

“Hey,” Dean says, nudging Cas with his knee as he sits on the floor and leafs through another box of childhood memorabilia, with this crease in his forehead that makes Dean want to drag him out the Milton house, out of touching distance of _Naomi_ , to take him home and kiss him until he smiles again. “Hold this and sit on the bed.” 

“What?” 

“C’mon,” Dean says, shaking the old history text book in Castiel’s direction, “Work with me here, buddy.” 

“I’m not your _buddy_.” 

“Right,” Dean says, “Sorry. Force of habit.” 

“Dean, we’re not _finished_ ,” Castiel says, sat crossed legged on the floor surrounded by old school assignments, pictures and souvenirs. This is hard on him. Cas has always gotten a little overwhelmed when it comes to _memories_ and working out what’s worth getting nostalgic about and what’s worth saying good-fucking-riddance too. It figures that he’s been miserable ever since they pulled up outside the house. 

“Yeah, no, I get that,” Dean says, “Just trying to relive some childhood nostalgia, sweetheart.” 

“You want me to ---” 

“ --- hold this,” Dean says, with the book aloft, “And sit on the bed.” 

“This is ridiculous,” Cas deadpans, standing up with an expression like his sense of humour’s been surgically removed. It’s not necessarily unusual or unexpected. He knows how Cas gets and he knows how much he _hated_ this place, with Naomi’s expectation and her cold, callous words. 

Even so, Cas takes the book with an-award winning eye roll and sits down gingerly. 

“Now, quiz me.” 

“ _Quiz you_.” 

“Yep,” Dean says, “It’s high school, Cas. I’m fifteen and you’re giving me a hard time about flunking world history, so _quiz me_.” 

“You didn’t _flunk_ history.” 

“Really? Teacher must have been hot.” 

“I refuse to believe you were attracted to Mrs Garret.” 

“No, not so much,” Dean says, flopping down onto the bed next to him and offering him a smile. There’s not much space, given Naomi never upgraded him from a single bed, which gives him an up close and personal view of Cas’ frown. “Quiz me.” 

“In what year did world war one start?” 

“Uh, pass,” 

“Dean,” 

“I don’t know, nineteen fifteen.” 

“Fourteen,” Castiel corrects, flicking through the book. It’s… it’s strange, because it’s _so familiar_. They did this all the time, a hundred hurts ago. A long time before Dean knew how complicated life could get. “And it lasted---?” 

“Too long,” 

“Yes, war has a tendency to do that,” Cas frowns, “Four years and three months.” 

“Some guy got shot.” 

“A _lot_ of guys got shot,” Cas says, as Dean leans over and shuts the book. “I assume you mean Archduke Franz Ferdinand,” Cas continues, as Dean prizes it from his hands. “Dean, you _told me_ to quiz you...” he begins, with that crease in his forehead, and Dean kisses him. 

“Always wanted to do this,” Dean says, pulling back just enough to smile at him, before he kisses him again, slow, careful and tentative, like he’s fifteen and brave enough to go after he wants. 

It wouldn’t have _worked_. He learnt all the truths he needed to know to make this work the hard way and he sure as hell didn’t know them at fifteen, when he was dumb and scared and insecure and in love with his smart college-bound best friend. 

Dean tries not to play that what-if game too much, because it’s complicated and painful and regret only ever left a bad taste at the back of his throat, but --- but it’s _tempting_ , in Castiel’s old bedroom, where he pushed down every single urge to just lean over and fucking kiss him and tried to focus on freaking _studying_. 

Cas runs his fingers through his hair and kisses him like they’ve never done it before. 

“I would have let you.” 

“I know,” Dean says, and… he can’t remember what the point of this was. He was aiming to _cheer the guy up_ , some. To get him out of his head. To distract him. Mostly, he just feels a little --- 

Sad. 

Everything would’ve been different, if he had. If he’d _just_ been brave enough to close the gap and kiss him, maybe they would have figured the rest of it out, but he didn’t. Sam had a _point_ : Dean had just shy of two decades knowing Cas was into guys and never made a fucking move, whereas Cas only made it slightly past twenty four hours. Even if Dean didn’t have the balls to _kiss him_ , he could’ve _come out_ and maybe Cas would have been brave enough to close the rest of the distance. 

“We should get back to clearing up,” Dean says, squaring his jaw slightly. 

“Dean,” Cas says, with a hand cupping his jaw and his whole body twisted towards him, “I --” 

_Of course_ , that’s when Naomi would walk in with two cups of coffee and a cold, hard look. 

“I’m interrupting,” Naomi says, disapproval dripping from her everything. 

Dean _hates_ her. He’d forgotten what a visceral reaction that was until they were at her front door, but she’s always been a piece of work. Naomi may think he’s scum, but the feeling’s mutual and it’s as uncomfortable as hell to have her _looking down on him_ as he straightens up and tries to look a little less like he was necking with Cas in his childhood bedroom. 

It’s the way she talks to Cas that drives him crazy. Barked orders, disapproval, expectation. They’ve been here an hour and Castiel has already retreated in on himself and ---- he deserves better. He _always_ deserves better than some pant-suited, stiff neck woman acting like sharing his blood gave her a right to dictate his life. 

“We’re --- taking a break,” Castiel says, pushing Dean away with a hand to his chest before he has a chance to move himself. 

“Evidently,” Naomi says, setting the two coffees down on the desk and glancing over the room. 

“Uh, thanks,” Dean says, nodding at the coffee and pocketing his hands. 

He thinks Naomi is scum, but he’s never really managed to stop being polite to her. It’s like a _tick_ , after an adolescence of his presence in Cas’-life being at her mercy. He _had_ to play the suck-up card, then, and it’s --- 

“I’m going to put the boxes in the car.” Castiel says, expression set. 

“He thinks I don’t like you,” Naomi says, after Castiel has picked up one of their boxes and stalked out the room. 

“Yeah,” Dean exhales, turning back towards Cas’ stuff. He adds the history book onto the _keep_ pile, even though he’s got no idea whether Castiel wants to hold onto that memory or not. “Wonder why.” 

He _doesn’t_ care what Naomi thinks about him. That’s never really been a winnable game, anyway, because Naomi’s thought of him as beneath all of them since the dawn of time. White trash, uneducated and poor. He doesn’t give a damn about that, anymore, because it’s irrelevant. He _cares_ that Naomi was supposed to step in for Cas’ dead mom, with care and love and support, and instead she reigned down judgement and control and hurts. 

“I _worry_ about him. I mean, he's been unstable in the past, but I was shocked at how damaged he is now.” Naomi says, picking up the trench coat Cas shed and left on the back of his chair and tracing out the seam with mock-concern. 

“Stop, okay? Don't – don't try to spin this.” 

“I admire your loyalty. I only wish he felt the same way.” 

“I don’t think you’re an authority on what Cas feels about anything,” Dean says, piling another book into the keep-box. 

“Cas,” Naomi repeats, mocking, “He should be with his family.” 

“Yeah,” Dean says, setting the book down heavily and turning to look at her, “Well, he is and, newsflash, that’s not you.” 

“Oh really,” Naomi says, pacing to the other corner of the room, “You mean _you_.” 

“Yeah, I mean me,” Dean says, “And I mean _Gabriel._ Anna. People that actually give a damn about what’s best for him, not the ones that pull this _come get your belongings before yesterday_ , crap.” 

“Dean,” Castiel says, stood in the doorway with the same, steely expression, “Let’s leave.” 

He doesn’t need asking twice. 

He doesn’t want to _be here_ anymore. The nostalgia’s turned sour in his gut and Naomi _pisses him off_ and he doesn’t like Cas looking all puppy-dog-eyes and sad and --- he shouldn’t’ve started thinking about _what ifs_. It doesn’t help anyone. He knows that. He’s not dumb, it’s just --- 

The Milton House has always made him feel a little inadequate. 

“Yeah, okay,” Dean says, scooping up the nearest box of crap and Cas’ coat and heading for the door. 

He had a plan for today. There’s this french restaurant that Cas likes that Dean can just about tolerate (if Cas tells him exactly what to order, with this soft smile that Dean chooses not to translate as ‘my boyfriend is a neanderthal’) and they were gonna have a nice dinner, and Dean was going to give him the key to his apartment. 

He figured it would cheer Cas up after this bullshit with Naomi, but instead all of this has got his hooks in Dean, too. 

They still go, because Dean doesn’t really want to have a conversation about why they’re not going and at the end of the night Cas hugs him in the kitchen and Dean breathes _you deserve better_ into his hair. It's not perfect, but Cas still forces a smile and kisses him goodnight and that's something.

* 

_Did you really think this was gonna fix you_ , jaw slammed together, gotta keep quiet, _none of this is happening_ , knife to his throat, but _it’s not happening,_ not happening, and --- Sam’s at college, somewhere, with a girlfriend and a life and -- _Give you closure? That is sad, sad, sad_ and --- blood in his mouth from biting his cheek, sharp, skin seering, clenched fists and Alastair is smiling _sad, sad, sad_ , and the room is spinning, drank too much, way too fucking much, with his back against the edge of the bathtub while Alastair was somewhere else, and he just needed to stop _thinking_ and now --- now, he can’t concentrate on _not being here_ pretending it’s _not happening_ , because his head’s not working, thoughts rolling --- _Did you think this was going to fix you_ \--- and —- 

—- _Stand up, brush your teeth, come here_ , and then he kisses him with a smile full of venom and razor sharp teeth, with the knife still in his hand — 

Dean wakes up drenched in cold sweat, with Castiel pretending to be asleep next to him. 

Sometimes, it takes a moment to be able to breathe again. He has to actively _think_ about getting air in his lungs — in, out, in out — through the misty panic and shame and dread, and after that he can focus on what’s _real_. 

Sam’s floppy haircut as he sat with him in hospital. Bobby clapping him on the shoulder and saying _’I’ve got you son’_. Castiel in the Beach House master bedroom, index finger tracing the scar he got from falling down the porch steps. 

_Alastair’s hands on his skin, on his back, with the sandpaper-scratch of motel sheets on his face and ---_. 

He’s gonna be sick. 

Nightmares happen. Less lately, but they don’t live in a hallmark movie and some slip through the net. Mostly, he rides them out. Splashes some water on his face, drinks some water, crawls back to his bed after his heart rate has slowed down and everything starts to realign his head, but this is bad. 

He makes it to the bathroom in time to throw up with his heart still racing and everything feeling so real that he can almost still smell it --- blood and damp and stale alcohol --- and he can’t do anything _about that_ until his heart rate slows down. 

Dean forces himself to prize open one of his balled fists and places his hand over the pentagram tattooed on his chest, counting breaths. One, two, three. He’s _at home_ , safe, and all of this was a long damn time ago. It’s over. He’s done. _Four, five, six_ and the bathroom smells like cheap lemon toilet-cleaner and vomit which isn’t fucking great, but there’s no blood, no damp, no Alastair. 

_Seven_. The edge of the toilet basin is cold and solid. Eight. Earlier, he went to the Milton house with Cas, and --- 

Damnit, Cas. 

He worries. Dean _knows_ that and it’s not like he doesn’t get that, because this _is_ a fucking shitshow. He _knows_ that gritting his teeth and letting Dean deal with it like he asked is doing a number of Cas’ head. He _knows_ it’s not a lot of fun to feel powerless in the face of all of this. 

Dean shuts his eyes for a moment but that turns out to be a little disorientating, so he forces them back open and stares at Castiel’s toothbrush. 

They need to have a conversation about this, at some point. A proper dialogue. He knew that. 

_Nine_ , and the light flicks on in the bedroom, scattering light across the floor of the bathroom. Ten, eleven, twelve, and Dean drops his hand from his chest to balls his fist into his stomach. 

“Dean,” Cas says, voice rough from sleep in the doorway, glass of water in hand. It figures they’d get to a point where Cas couldn’t stay out of it anymore. Dean doesn’t blame him for that. Dean’s pretty sure he’d have caved weeks ago, actually, and tonight is bad. He’s got no real sense of how long he’s been in the bathroom, but he’s pretty sure it’s been a while. Long enough for Cas to feel twisted up enough about all of it that he’s tiptoeing over Dean’s boundary lines, all worried and unsure. 

“Hey,” Dean says. There’s nothing he can really _say_ to claim back the dignity of Cas seeing him parked on the floor of his bathroom with his forehead resting against the basin, waiting for the nausea to pass. He could opt for a barefaced lie and say that he’s okay, but he’s a long way away from _okay_ and… Cas deserves more from him. 

“You look…” 

“Like crap?” Dean substitutes, gingerly pulling himself to his feet and propping himself up against the sink. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror on the way up and ‘crap’ is generous, really. _Fucking everything_ is written all of his face and Dean doesn’t wanna deal with that, so he diverts his attention to splashing water on his face. 

_Home, Cas, safe_. 

“You have looked better,” Castiel says, half paralysed in the doorway. “Dean, I need to —- let me help. I know you can deal with this without me, but — I can’t …” 

“— You, uh. Wanna watch some TV?” Dean asks. It’s a little lame. There’s a conversation that they definitely need to have about all of this at some point, but he hasn’t really got the words or the strength right now. He can throw him this bone, he just doesn’t have anything else to offer. “I’m not gonna sleep any time soon, so.” 

“I —- yes.” 

“Okay,” Dean says, letting a trickle of water run down the back of his neck. “I, uh. Need a minute to get my sea legs. Brush my teeth.” 

“Alright,” 

He’s cold. He’s coming back to himself, now, and he goes from not really being aware of it to freaking freezing. He’s getting a headache and he still feels a little unsteady and it’s all fucking _bullshit_ , because this was supposed to be a good weekend. He was gonna have a nice dinner with Cas and give him the key to his apartment and there was gonna be victory sex and goddamn spooning and, right now, his insides feel like lead. 

“Cas,” Dean says, halfway through trying to dig out some pain killers from the cupboard. There’s spare toothpaste and goddamn lube, but nothing that’s actually gonna _help_. “Can you, uh. M’cold.” 

“The tylenol is in the kitchen. I’ll --- I’ll get it.” 

Right. Cas’ hangover yesterday. 

“Thanks,” Dean exhales. 

Cas brings him his extra layers while Dean’s brushing his teeth, setting them down all neatly folded on the edge of the bath. His old metallica t-shirt, some Harvard hoodie that must belong to Cas and the dressing gown he’d sort of been pretending he didn’t own in front of Cas, in some misguided attempt to retain his facade is the kind of person that doesn’t own a dressing gown. He feels slightly better after he’s shrugged them on and padded out to the sofa, where Cas is setting up a freaking nest, with that sad, kicked puppy look that Dean really wishes he could fix. 

“You shouldn’t take painkillers on an empty stomach,” Cas says, pressing toast into his hands after Dean’s sat down and settled in the sofa cushions. 

“Cas.” 

“Dean, I have medical facts on my side.” 

He’s too tired to argue the point and, anyway, the toast is good. Cas has this thing about this expensive ass butter that’s somehow started appearing in his fridge, and it’s warm and delicious, and taking it lessens the lines of worry etched all over Castiel’s face. He draws the line at the _fucking tea_ that Cas has made him, but he can eat the damn toast if it makes him happy. 

“Looney tunes,” Dean says, after he’s drunk some water and taken the drugs and steadfastly ignored the tea. 

“What?”

“After,” Dean says, “When I first got out, me and Sam would sit up all night watching looney tunes.” 

Mostly, that was because it was the only damn thing he could find that didn’t have sex or gore in, but it has that comfort-blanket effect now. It was pretty reminiscent of their childhood, actually, with Sam sleeping on the other side of the bed so he was _right there_ if Dean woke up screaming, in an uncomfortable flip of their old dynamic. Dean used to be the one telling Sam the monsters under the bed weren’t real, but Sam had to tell him that they weren’t real _now_. It was undignified and a little humiliating, but Sam had suggested it and hadn’t mentioned it since. He’s a good brother. 

Cas dutifully picks up the remote and flicks it over to the Cartoon Network and the buzz of noise is too loud for his head, but there’s a more concrete kind of hurt than the rest of it and... that’s better.

In the early days of living alone, he used to listen to Metallica loud enough that it hurt his skull, after the nightmares. He’d skip the painkillers and _work out_ to trip his body into exhaustion so he could sleep again. He’s _nicer_ to himself, these days, and it works out better long term but it doesn’t necessarily come easy. 

“You’re —- very tense.” Cas says, voice low as he settles himself around Dean on the sofa, hyper aware of their personal space in a way that kind of makes him crazy. 

“Them’s the breaks.” 

“May I …?” Cas half asks, eyes wide and blue, and Dean suddenly has a vivid memory of Cas teasing the crick out of his neck at the Beach House with his thumb, right before Sam interrupted them. 

He has _no idea_ how that would go, but it sounds pretty good. It’s a better memory than anything else his brain has offered up tonight and --- 

\--- Cas is desperate to fucking help and Dean can’t really remember who keeping him out of it is supposed to help. 

“I, yeah. If you want,” Dean says, shrugging off his dressing gown and throwing it over his legs. He’s not gonna freaking drink it, but he picks up the tea anyway; the feeling the tea bleeding warmth into his fingers is good and he’ll take anything grounding and warm right now, especially when he’s not sure how Castiel _touching him_ is going to go. 

Once, Alastair wrapped his hands around throat to cut off his air supply just because. 

Cas touches him slow, steady, soft. He rests his hands on his shoulders way too fucking carefully (but yeah, even Dean’s not gonna claim it’s not necessary right now) and traces circles with his thumb, coaxing out the tension of old-fears and frustration out of his shoulders through his borrowed hoodie. He —- he’s actually _good_ at this, at finding that spot between his shoulder blades, following the taunt lines of muscle in the back of his neck, smoothing his palms over his shoulders, and it’s — something. Okay. Good. 

“You —- know what you're doing.” 

“Corporation team building weekend,” Castiel says, “We had a choice of learning this or survival skills.” 

“Huh. Maybe there were some benefits to your job,” Dean comments, voice a little mangled and weak. “And this is just coming up now?” 

“I’m committed to making you continually fall in love with me for a very long time,” Castiel says, sincere enough that it kind of hurts. “I needed to keep some things in my arsenal to stop you getting bored of me.” 

“Honestly, not anticipating that being a problem.” Dean says, leaning forward to shrug off Cas’ old hoodie and ball it up in his lap, mostly so that he can _feel_ Cas’ touch more. Concentrating on Cas’s fingers under the collar of his t-shirt tracing over the contours of his muscles is a _massive_ goddamn improvement on thinking about anything else, and it’s a different kind of physicality to think about. He’s used to concentrating on noise and freaking cartoons, but retreating into his body, into Cas’ hands on his skin is better. Good. 

One day, he’s gonna come up with some really fucking-excellent day dreams that involve _this_ \--- Cas’ _freaking hands_ \-- and a lot more nudity, but that day is not today. 

Instead, he thinks about fourteen year old Castiel steering him into one of their deckchairs, keeping him steady with a hand on his knee as he carefully moped up his bleeding forehead with an antiseptic wipe. He laughed at him plenty when he’d fallen down the porch steps, this glorious belly-laugh that had taken Dean as much by surprise as everything else, because Cas had a tendency to be self-conscious and quiet and then he _laughed_ like there was nothing holding him back. He got pretty serious and adamant about _sand in the wound_ after, though, insisting on playing doctor with the small smile creeping at the corners of his mouth. That smile eased Dean’s wounded pride a bit, although he never did let Cas talk him round to the bandaid. 

And --- 

There’s _keeping Castiel out_ and then there’s sitting on the sofa, half cocooned between Cas’ knees, buried in his dressing gown, with the guy easing knotts out of his back. At some point, Dean drank half his freaking-tea by accident. It’s zero to a hundred in no time at all, and Dean’s not really sure how it happened. 

It doesn’t _suck_. 

It's ---- he can get behind how it feels to have Cas looking after him, with his warmth and care and dedication to being a lot nicer to Dean than Dean feels like being to himself at three in the morning when he’s choking on his emotions. He can just about logic himself into the reminder that he’d do the same back and that he _does_ look after Cas in other ways, so it’s not like this is some unreciprocated kindness. He let Sam stand vigil over the nightmares, too, and he’d fuss about eating and drinking something and getting some sleep (from further away, obviously), so it’s not _that different_. 

It’s mostly pride and a little concern over Castiel’s welfare. 

He doesn’t _want_ any of this to be fucking neccesary, but his head’s starts pounding if he moves too fast and there’s still this implicit threat of _Alastair_ if he shuts his eyes and lets guard down, and... it’s kinda nice not to wait it out on his own. 

“Dean,” Castiel begins after a long silence, when he’s settled with his hands still on Dean’s shoulders. He’d been _expecting_ him to say something for awhile now, but he doesn’t give the guy enough credit for his patience. He’s given him _a lot_ more time than Sam ever would have. Hell, he’s held out a lot longer than Dean would have done if the situation was reversed. “I want —- I want to know. What happened. How it happened.” 

Cas hasn’t _asked_ about any of it, really. There’s been the few odd questions, some of them by accident, but he’s been…. Fucking incredible. He’s not _dumb_ , so Dean’s pretty sure he’s filled in the gaps and he’s not really sure how he feels about that --- it’d be better coming from _Dean_ than the back of Cas’ head, but _talking about it_ is just -- 

“You don’t,” Dean says, and his voice is still so fucking shaky. Weak. God, tonight _sucks_.“You don’t wanna know.” 

“No, Dean, I want it to never have happened to you, but it did, so it’s —- important, that I understand.” 

“You’re not _gonna_ understand. I don’t want you too.” 

“That was a poor choice of words,” Cas says, evenly, “Dean. I’m in love with you. I want —- I want to know everything about you.” 

Dean takes another sip of his tea and breathes. 

He _knew_ that keeping Cas out was a temporary measure because… this stuff is all so interwoven into his life that it just wouldn’t _work_ unless he kept Cas at arm’s length, forever, and he never wanted that. He just wanted some time. He wanted some _normal_. He wanted to feel like he had some fucking control over the good things happening, rather than having all this _shitty history_ snapping at his heals and reminding him about how fragile everything is. He wanted to just _be happy with Castiel_ and fuck Alastair, fuck the nightmares, fuck their years of mistakes and absence and all the ways that they’ve hurt each other. 

This is Dean’s _good thing_ and he wanted it to be simple. 

And he’s got just about enough logic left in his head to know that he’ll feel better about it in the morning, because this _is_ just a bad night, but letting Cas see him this messed-up and this _broken_ still feels a lot like admitting defeat. 

Pride, mostly. 

Watching cartoons alone on the sofa with his fists clenched while Castiel pretends that he’s not lying awake worrying doesn’t actually help anyone. He knows that. He knows being stubborn and dumb makes everything worse. 

“Not against you knowing, exactly.” Dean says, because that _isn’t_ the issue, or… it’s just part of it. It would all be simpler if he could download a synopsis into Cas’ brain, so at least he’d know what buttons not to press, what crap not to say, it just doesn't _work like that_ , because to get there they have to have the conversation. He has to sit there and watch Cas’ face as he drags these complicated, barbed words that he’s picked out to label his experiences and it’s _difficult_ and painful and _he doesn’t fucking want to_. He wants to talk about their future. He wants to talk about Cas, a bottle of freaking massage oil and a really epic night they’re going to have, one day. He wants to work out what they’re doing for Thanksgiving and Christmas and he wants to _make Cas laugh_ as hard as he did when he fell down the porch steps at the Beach House, and he _doesn’t want to_ talk about how Alastair got under his skin, into his head, twisted everything, and how the first time he took a knife to his skin he asked _’what are you going to do about?’_ in that sly drawl, because he knew Dean wouldn’t _do_ anything. 

He doesn’t want Cas to _think of him_ like that. 

“Dean,” Cas says, too gentle and fucking perfect, “I can’t imagine how hard this is to talk about.” 

“I -- I can do it,” Dean says, because that’s important. He doesn’t want Cas to think he’s not _capable_ , because working out how the hell to even talk about it was important. He’s not still in that place where the past is some unspeakable wasteland of mental horror --- he’s doing _okay_ , with that --- it’s just that some of it’s still raw. There’s parts of it that were still hard to talk about with Sam, before Cas invited him to the Beach House, and there’s parts of it that are going to _hurt Cas_ and he hates doing that. He’s spent enough time accidentally hurting Cas. He doesn’t want to do it anymore. “Just a damn long list of crap I’d rather do with my time. With you.” 

“That’s understandable,” Cas says, “But, I think it’s necessary. I’m not asking you to... to go into every detail. It’s not even about your trauma, Dean, I want to understand your recovery. I feel like I am missing things I need to know.” 

“I know,” Dean says heavily, “I know, man. You’ve — honestly, you’ve been a lot more patient than I expected you to be. I know you need to know. Just have some complicated feelings about it.” 

“Yes,” Cas says. “I don’t want to ask this of you.” 

“Yeah, I,” Dean begins, setting his freaking tea down and running a hand over his face, “This --- it’s been hard on you, I get that. But, I appreciate you giving me some time. Wasn’t pushing you out because of _you_.” 

“I know, Dean.” 

“But it’s not —- accepted a long damn time ago that this stuff was probably going to affect me, in one way or another, for the rest of my life,” Dean says, peeling the words out from under his skin. He’d rather talk about this tomorrow, really, but maybe then he’ll be able come up with another list of reasons to _not_ talk about it. Right now, he hasn’t really got a leg to stand on. He’s not all that sure if he _could_ stand, if he came down to it. “Whole different bag of mental bullshit to think about it affecting you.” 

Cas is quiet for a few moments. Sweeps his fingertips along Dean’s shoulders in the patchy light from the television. Breathes. 

“I intend to be there for the rest of your life, if you want me to be.” 

“I —- course I do,” Dean says, with his lungs inflating and a twinge of something _good_ in his chest. “Yeah, I want you forever.” 

“I want to _help,_ Dean,” Castiel says, with his voice lullaby-gentle, intimate. The damn thing is, he knows Cas is sincere about it. He _knows_ that Cas would do a lot more for a lot less and it’s that kind of thought that scares him and thrills him. He didn’t think he was the kind of person that anyone would _sacrifice_ for and… it’s something to know that Bobby and Sam would and have come through when Dean didn’t have a single offer of anything back, but from _Cas_ , it’s just --- “Not because you need my help, but because I am in love with you and your life has been hard, and you deserve someone who makes it easier.” 

Dean twists to look at him with something hot and painful pressing at the back of his eyes. 

“Just —- promise you’ll still believe that after you’ve heard all of it, because I’m not — not _blameless._ ” 

He’s not in the habit of asking for promises that he doesn’t think Cas can keep, but he --- 

\--- _This is his good thing_. And, okay, it’s _not_ , really. His life is full of good things. He’s got Sam and Bobby and Charlie and he thought that was fine. He thought _sitting these nights out_ was okay --- better than anything he could’ve ever hoped of --- and he’s scared, fucking terrified, of getting used to Cas treating him with kindness and dignity, of _wanting_ company as he waits out the old terrors and it slipping through his fingers. 

_I intended to be there for the rest of your life, if you want me to_. 

He _wants_. He forgot how painful it was to _want_. 

“Dean, you are.” 

“Look, I’m not — not saying I fucking deserved it,” Dean says, even though he used to believe that, right down to his bone marrow. In his soul. _You are the opposite of worthless_. “But a whole bunch of stuff is a direct result of my flaws and my choices.” 

“I have known you since you were twelve, Dean, I am under no illusions about who you are.” 

“Says the guy who thought I was fucking straight till a few months ago.” 

“Dean.” 

“Sorry,” Dean says, running a hand over his face again. His head still hurts. The painkillers didn’t touch it and he’s still pretty sure if he shut his eyes, Alastair would be waiting for him with devastating precision and cruelty, and --- its not the time to make a godamn joke, but it's a force of habit. _Deflect_. He’s been working on that, it’s just…. Tonight is bad and it _wasn’t fucking supposed to be_. “Just, still kinda funny, in a fucking awful way.” 

Cas takes his hand and threads their fingers together. He’s warmer than his half-drunk cup of tea is, now, steady and solid as he looks him dead in the eye. 

“I promise that nothing you tell me will do anything but deepen my respect for you, and that I will continue to want to be part of your life forever.” 

He _wants_ that to be true as much as he’s ever wanted anything. 

“You know this is the first time we’ve talked forever,” Dean exhales, “S’not exactly how I pictured it.” 

“Thank you for letting me sit up with you.” 

“Don’t _thank me,_ for that.” 

“I know you,” Cas says, “I know —- that vulnerability costs you.” Dean makes a noise at the back of his throat that might be a protest or might be an acknowledgement that Castiel can see right through him, because it does _cost him_. He’s just not sure if that’s just his pride, or energy, or his dignity, or if any of that worth a damn thing, but it _costs_. It’s just the flipside isn’t free, either. “It --- goes against your instincts.” 

“My instincts are a little jacked, Cas.” 

“It’s… discomforting to you to let me see you like this.” 

“No, man, it’s _discomforting_ to feel like this,” Dean says, even though he’s not actually wrong. He wouldn’t pick the word _discomforting_. He’d call it excruciating. Unsettling. Hard goddamn work. “Don’t wanna _be_ this mess.” 

“You’re not a _mess_ , Dean. You are the most selfless, loving human being I will ever know, and you are the strongest man I’ve ever met. It is a privilege to sit with you. I don’t know what I’m doing, Dean, but… if all I ever get to do again is sit with you while you’re in pain that would be my greatest honour.” 

Dean drains the rest of his tea to give him a reason to break Castiel’s gaze. It’s lukewarm, now, and it didn’t taste great to begin with. Still, it’s an excuse to look at his hands, at the bent line of his little finger, and try and work out what to _say_. He’s never been great with compliments. Hell, Dean hated being single out at birthday parties. He’s only just stopped cutting his brother off when he says nice crap, because he _knows_ that his messed-up view of himself got into a lot of damn trouble. He doesn’t _believe_ that stuff Alastair said anymore, but it’s still a little hard to rectify _worthless, broken, unlovable, unfixable_ with Cas’ achingly sincerity and overblown sentiments. With _privilege_ and _my honour_ and _strength_. 

“We can talk about it,” Dean says, heavily. “Not --- not _now_ , but. Yeah, we’ll talk. Maybe you can just —- ask what you wanna know and I’ll… I’ll try, Cas.” 

“Whatever’s easiest.” 

“You’re such a fucking saint.” 

“I — I’m unclear if that’s a compliment,” Cas says, tilting in his head in the perfect little Cas-ism. 

Dean snorts and shuts his eyes for a moment. He's steadier than he was, which is good, and makes it easier to rearrange their limbs on the sofa and tuck the dressing gown over their legs. 

“Mostly a compliment,” Dean says, kissing him on the cheek and turning the volume of the TV down until it no longer niggles at the back of his head. 

Cas is basically a miracle, with his patience and steady not-quite-frown and his genuine belief that Dean _deserves good things_. Fuck, he loves him, and he’s used to it being this unending itch under his skin; this hook in his lungs and his heart that twisted a little deeper whenever Castiel would look at him like that, when their shoulders would brush together, when Cas would call him out on acting like a jerk. It’s _a goddamn revelation_ that Cas wants to sit there while Dean tries to hold his emotional-guts it, calmly accepting his scars and his _nightmares_ and his baggage like Dean’s giving him some kind of gift. He’s _loved him_ for nearly two decades, but it’s different now that he knows how Cas kisses, how he looks when he’s just woken up in his arms, now he’s actually honest with himself about all of it. In comparison, that was kid stuff. Something a lot more than infatuation, but not _this_. A relationship. Reciprocation. _Partnership_ rather than helplessly burying his feelings with bad jokes and cheap sex and never really telling him how he felt about anything. 

One day, Dean’s going to give him a key to his apartment, but --- tonight is a bad night. 

“Night, Cas,” Dean mutters, as Cas threads their fingers together. 


	6. Hell, the Milton House, Home

He didn’t exactly intend to kiss Dean at the Beach House. He _intended for it to happen,_ but he meant to leave it to Dean to initiate because, really, it was his turn.

_Sam_ outed him and kicked the whole thing off (the absurdity of which was not lost on him at the time), and then it all just _fell together_ and escalated into that _moment_ where Dean was treading water and looking at him, brushing water off his cheek with his thumb and _not kissing him_ and he just —- he had to. 

Dean said he used to like him in the firelight on the beach, then Castiel said he used to love him. Dean came to his room due to a text about his father and Castiel came to his the next night to ask about his damnable wedding, and Dean told him everything and they fell asleep looking at each other. Castiel _said_ he was attracted to him, more or less, and he eased the crick out of his neck in the kitchen, and he curled up to Dean on the sofa, and flirted with him on the beach and _Dean was supposed to kiss him_ , but Castiel caved first.

He did not _mean to_.

The situation seemed delicate enough that he should wait for Dean’s cue. He wasn’t _entirely sure_ if Dean wanted him to, because…. yes, he’d allowed Castiel to step into his boundaries and he’d been remarkably vulnerable and candid about how he used to feel, but he never actually _said anything_. He almost flirted. He looked at him like he wanted something to happen. He reached out half the way, but he never actually _committed._ The moment Castiel thought he might, he’d asked about his divorce instead, dragging their conversation back into serious and resolutely dodging his turn.

Obviously, Castiel doesn’t regret it. 

There was a moment when he almost did: stood outside of the Beach House master bedroom, unsure if knocking on the door was asking for the kind of rejection that he’s sure would be humiliating and very difficult to recover from, or if Dean wanted him to come to his room when he declared he was going to bed at eight PM. He knocked on the door regardless, because the damage had already been done. Either Dean wanted to kiss him before they’d been swept up in the water and had the moment snatched away, or he didn’t. Not-knowing all night didn’t feel better than getting his answer, and then —— then Dean _finally kissed him_ and everything was perfect, and Castiel didn’t really care that he’d gone back on his better judgement, or that he’d internally decided that it was Dean’s call. Dean said _‘does that clear some things up?_ and it really, really did, so the whys and hows became irrelevant and distracting.

But —- 

He knows Dean very well. He knows what each glint of his eye and square of the jaw means. He knows enough to listen to the subtext of his words and to know that Dean is expecting him to; that Dean _intends_ for you to hear ‘I love you too’ in ‘we can talk about it’ and gritting his teeth and nearly-not complaining about flights to New York. He _knows_ him, but he had misjudged his propensity for self-denial.

Castiel has seen Dean chase girls with confidence (or bravado, maybe), with terrible brazen lines and a winning smile. He’s seen Dean carelessly chasing what he wanted in any given moment, with alcohol, with hustling pool and getting them thrown out of bars, or shamelessly trying to get served underaged without a moment of hesitation. He always knew that this easy-going, devil-may-care Dean wasn’t the full picture, because he’d _also_ seen Dean’s hard bitter edges when Sam talked about going to college far away, his propensity to care deeply for others when he listened to Castiel’s teenage angst, his tendency to fall into quiet, dark moods when he wouldn’t talk to anyone. Castiel _knows_ about all of that, but he’d been thinking about the former when he thought about it being Dean’s responsibility on kiss him on the beach if he _wanted to_ and it didn’t occur to him until after that Dean never managed to tell him about his sexuality in _fifteen years_ and that he hid it _because_ he thought Castiel could never be interested in him.

It’s laughable, but it isn’t really funny. _Dean_ thinking so little of himself (and so highly of Castiel) is jarring and painful and --- 

He hasn’t dwelt on it much. There were a lot of _other_ things to think about and discuss, between Alastair and Castiel’s life inverting itself, and trying to rebalance their tentative friendship into a relationship. Mostly, Castiel has been thinking about _kissing Dean again_ rather than that first kiss, but…. But Dean is walking around that kitchen with that _hard_ cornered look like he’s about to come out swinging and Castiel thinks about the Dean who buried his feelings deep enough that Castiel was clueless about a whole swathe of his experiences for over a decade and he doesn’t know what to do.

Dean looks better than last night on the other side of a shower and several cups of coffee he drank when Castiel was still asleep, but he still looks drawn and tired. He’s covered it up with steel and something almost-confrontational, but it’s _there_. He knows this Dean, too, because _this Dean_ is the one who told him not to get married and told him he was a _privileged asshat_ in the summer after his first year of college. 

He does _not know_ what to do in the face of this Dean, in the context of their relationship. That particular expression was the precursor for most of their bad arguments, because Dean has always been very good at pushing the right buttons when he’s gunning for a fight. He _knows Castiel too_ which is part of the reason why they’ve always been very good at hurting each other. 

Castiel doesn’t _want_ to argue with him. Mostly, he wants to wrap his arms around him and hold him and tell him that he loves him, but he doubts that would be appreciated or allowed. This is a _I’m-pretending-I-don’t-have-feelings_ Dean. This is a backlash after everything that happened last night and he was expecting it, at some point, but he’s still unqualified and very, very tired.

“So,” Dean says, punching the word out as he tops up Castiel’s coffee. “We having this talk?”

He wants to say _no_. He’d intended to think it through to work out how to frame his questions to be sensitive and helpful and he’d intended to have the conversation when everything was less fresh and raw, or at least when he’s had more sleep, but --- 

He also promised Dean he wouldn’t treat him with kid-gloves. He _told him_ that Dean got to determine how they dealt with it and that he trusted him, which Castiel flagrantly pushed at last night. He _asked_ Dean to speak to him and to defer when Dean has clearly psyched himself up --- with adrenaline, coffee and frustration, apparently --- feels like the gateway to a fight. 

Castiel does _not want_ to have a damn fight.

He doesn’t want to _talk about this_ right now, either, but that seems the lesser evils of the opportunities available to him.

Allowing Dean his pride means allowing him to bulldoze them into this conversation, when by all logic he should probably be in bed trying to get some sleep. That’s _Dean’s_ decision, though, and telling him to _go to bed_ will not end well. 

He said he’d honour his decisions, so he will honour his decisions, however pig-headed and stubborn they are.

Castiel sets down his spoon and pushes away the mostly empty bowl of cereal.

“Go.” Dean says, with all his walls pulled around him, shoulders tense. “Ask your questions.” 

This _isn’t going to end well_.

“Are they,” Castiel begins, faltering at the word _flashback_ , because it feels too medical, too clinical. He doesn’t want to put words into Dean’s mouth, both because it’s _not his place_ to label those experiences and because it is liable to irritate him. Even internally, Castiel has been endeavoring to steer clear of any _labels_ that he hasn’t heard from Dean’s mouth. “Real,” he finishes.

“Sometimes,” Dean says.

“Last night?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “That one was real.”

“Allright,” Castiel says, brow furrowed as he tries to think of something he’d be willing to ask this version of Dean. He _has questions_ , but he’d be scared of some of the answers on good days and today isn’t going very well. He’s silent for too long, apparently, because Dean squares his jaw in irritation and shucks up his shirt.

He doesn’t normally bother to pull on a shirt straight after the shower, but it isn’t surprising today given everything. Now, he gestures at a long, thin scar that begins at his hip and dips below the line of his jeans.

“That’s what I dreamt about,” He says, dropping his shirt before Castiel can really _look_. He knows what he’s referring to, though, because he’s studied and touched every inch of his body while deliberately _not_ thinking about his scars. He didn’t think Dean would want him too. “Already been a shit day. He’d gone to town on that psychological warfare bullshit, telling me no one gave a fuck where I was with a knife to my throat. Then he cut me up because he could. He went out and I got blackout drunk in the bathroom because I didn’t wanna _think_ anymore, and then he came back and he…” Dean loses momentum halfway through his thought, shutting his eyes for a moment and pinching his forehead and ---

\--- and _Castiel knows_. He knew, anyway, because Dean told him that _sex_ was a trigger, in the same breathe he told him he loved him for the first time, and everything started slotting together. It hadn’t _occurred to him_ before that. While Dean was telling him everything else --- _’pretty fucked up, abusive relationship with a guy who used to be my loan shark’_ \--- he had the physical reality of _physical trauma_ right in front of him, seared into his retina, and he was focusing on trying to react well, because Dean deserved Castiel to be calm and understanding after everything he’d been through and after this happened on Castiel’s watch. He hadn’t thought about _Dean sleeping with this man_ until after the panic attack and he’s been trying not to dwell on it since, because he _doesn’t know_ if Dean wants him to know. 

He doesn’t know what Dean thinks about it.

Before right now, he wasn’t sure if Dean _thought about it all_. With some well-intended naivety that he never really bought into, Castiel had hypothesised that, perhaps, their sexual relationship had petered off into nothing by the time the physical abuse got this bad; it would make it just-barely better, but it would be _better_. 

But ---- Castiel knows the end of that sentence is worse than the beginning and the beginning was harrowing and nauseating. Dean didn’t even _make it to the end_ of the sentence, which… Does that mean that Castiel is still not supposed to know? That taking about _that_ is a step too far over his boundaries? Does it mean that he’s _never_ reached the end of the sentence? 

_This is what Dean dreams about_.

“Dean,” Castiel says, watching him warily over his coffee.

Dean sits down heavily.

“Ah, fuck,” He says, still trying to rub the tension out of his forehead with his finger and thumb, “Cas, I didn’t …”

“It’s fine,”

“Being a jackass, attacking you in the damn kitchen. Throwing that on you.”

“Yes,” Castiel concedes, because it’s not _inaccurate_. This is not Dean’s finest moment but, on balance, that is _understandable_. If _any of this_ happened to Castiel, he doesn’t think he’d survive it. He wouldn’t be walking and talking. Comparatively, Dean is a miracle. 

Dean’s mouth pulls up into an almost-smile at Castiel’s agreement and it’s lovely.

“Don’t really wanna fucking talk about anything right now.”

“That’s fine,” Castiel says and then, because he’s tired and because it’s worth mentioning, “You started it.”

“Yeah, I know,” Dean says, that almost-smile widening, “I know. Figured --- bandaid.” 

“I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” Castiel says, tracing a thumb around the corner of his mug. _Psychological warfare_. That’s a new term, from Dean. He’d used _gaslighted_ before, but this is stronger. Cuts more to the bones of the thing. “Primarily because a bandaid assumes you have a _minor injury_ and this is ---- complicated. I didn’t mean we had to talk about it _today_.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “M’ just --- tired.”

“Yes,” Castiel agrees, “What _do_ you want to do today?”

“Hmm, we’ve got a couple of hours till Bobby’s.”

“Do you want to go to Bobby’s?” Castiel asks, because Dean still looks like what he really needs is to bury himself in blankets and sleep, but he’s not brave enough to suggest it. Dean was reluctant to sleep last night, presumably thinking that the nightmare would restart --- and with _Alastair telling him no one cared where he was with a knife to this throat_ being the best part of the memory, that is more than understandable --- but now a little of the fight has fallen out of his shoulders, he looks tired.

Castiel never really had an explanation for why Dean is so careful around alcohol, although he’d made some assumptions. The idea of Dean drinking to black out in the bathroom of some motel, bleeding and waking up to Alastair coming back and _something_ happen while Dean was still drunk and hurting is --- 

He can’t _fix any of it_. Dean is in pain and Castiel doesn’t really know what to do.

“Huh? Oh, yeah, we have to,” Dean says, “I gotta —- Sam.” Castiel doesn’t really know what that means, but he opts to take it at face value rather than press. “Honestly, I just want some damn sleep. Feel like shit.”

“Allright,” Castiel says, looking up at him, “That sounds like a good idea.”

“You coming?” Dean asks, standing up.

“I --- I didn’t know I was invited.”

“Not the only one who camped out on the sofa last night,” Dean throws back, “Anyway --- I need you.”

“You _need me_ ,” Castiel deadpans, following him into the bedroom feeling slightly wrong-footed still. He’s not entirely sure how they went from _that Dean_ to this Dean, or how he’s somehow managed to get exactly what he wanted without asking for it. 

“Congrats, Sweetheart, you’ve just been promoted to big spoon.” Dean says, throwing the covers back. Castiel had forgotten that he made the bed last night, while he was still talking himself into obeying Dean’s _stay out of it request_ before he couldn’t do it anymore. He _tried_ , but ---

\--- waiting for Dean to stop being obtuse and frustrating can take a long time.

He doesn’t regret going to him last night, either. If he hadn’t, it’s very doubtful that Dean would be inviting him back to bed now, and he very very much wants to be in bed. 

“I didn’t know there was a hierarchy involved in spooning.”

“There ain't,” Dean says, as Castiel sits down on the edge of the bed to shed his socks, before sliding back under the covers. “I’m asking you to _fucking hold me_ , just trying to be a man about it.”

“Oh,” Castiel says, chest tightening. Dean is _lovely_. Dean pushing past his tendency towards self-denial to _ask for what he wants_ is lovely, particularly when what he wants is so excellent aligned to what Castiel has been aching to do all night. For weeks. For _years_ , really. “In that case,” Castiel says, and wraps his arms around him.

Dean exhales. Sinks into the covers. Breathes. 

“I’m sorry.”

“Not a damn thing you have to apologise for, Cas,” Dean says, “Thanks. Last night was --- you were great.”

This feels like an overestimation. Mostly, Castiel was helpless but present, which is an improvement on helpless and in a different room. He’s biggest contribution was making toast and tracking down painkillers, which is woefully inadequate in the face of Dean dreaming about _that_.

Psychological warfare. Telling him no one cared where he was. Knife to the throat. Slicing open his skin. Dean drinking until unconsciousness, and then --

Castiel tightens his arms around him, burying his face in the back of his neck and breathing in his familiar Dean-scent. They don’t usually settle like this. Generally, Dean is the one with his arms thrown around him, pressed up deliciously against Castiel’s back, with his car-muscles and his unending safety and warmth. He likes this too, though, and he hopes that Dean doesn’t avoid it under some absurd notion that it’s _unmanly_ to be held. He hadn’t really thought about Dean’s preoccupation with that before, with his _'no chick flick moments'_ and his _'what am I, a teenager girl?'_ He hopes that Dean shed that with some of the other insecurities that fell away, at some point, because it feels very, very good to have Dean encased in his arms.Dean should be able to have this uncomplicated physical comfort without reservation, given everything. He deserves to be held and loved and treated as the precious and remarkable man that he is.

He can’t really imagine anyone being allowed this close to Dean and choosing to _hurt him_ rather than to just revel in the closeness. 

“You know, now I know you’ve got freaking magic massage hands, I’m gonna be flagrantly abusing this fact.” Dean says, warm and easy. 

“I have a very free schedule,” Castiel returns, with his fingers half twisted into Dean’s shirt, millimeters from where Alastair cut into his skin _because he could_. “I’m sure this can be arranged. Although, I thought you already knew about my _magic hands_.”

“Oh, you’re a fucking riot,” Dean huffs a laugh, tangling their hands together and using it to kiss his knuckles, “You do foot rubs, too?”

Castiel considers this for just long enough for it not to be believable. 

“No.” 

Dean laughs again and squeezes his hand tight. Castiel shifts a little closer because he can and he wants to and he feels much better about everything wrapped around the man. He’s safe, Castiel’s _little spoon_ , and it feeds enough into that instinct to feel like he’s protecting him that it eases some of the guilt. He _isn’t_ , because the threat is inside Dean’s head, in the dark places he doesn’t want to kick up dust. Castiel’s not sure what he’d do or how he’d react, anyway. If Dean _had_ finished his sentence, Castiel isn’t arrogant enough to assume he’d have handled it well. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, really, and he’s trusting the combined forces of Dean’s judgement about how best to handle things together and Castiel’s talent at emotional repression. He can think about this —- about Dean drunk and bleeding and in pain —- when Dean doesn’t need him to be steady and solid and _holding him_. 

“You’re good at this.” Dean says, after a while. 

“Big spooning?”

“No,” Dean says, “Well, yeah, but I meant _being my boyfriend_.”

They had this conversation in reverse a couple of days ago, only then they were both in much better moods. Dean was irresistibly jovial with his big smiles, joking with his brother about things that Castiel didn’t really understand and Castiel was a little drunk but mostly happy.

Dean said _’got me a pretty good incentive’_ which Castiel took to mean ‘ _I love you_ because that’s usually what Dean means when he says things.

“Since I have met you, you have been my favourite person in inexistence,” Castiel says, brushing his fingers against Dean’s pulse point to feel his heartbeat through his skin, shutting his eyes. He’s very, very comfortable. He _likes_ Dean’s bed. Likes being wrapped around Dean. Likes hearing him breathe. “You are the love of my life.”

“Was thinking,” Dean says, after a little while of just lying in his arms. Dean should _sleep_ , really. That was the point of this. “How much soup d’you bring home? That tupperware full?”

“Hmm? Yes,” Castiel says, “The chicken soup was more popular than the vegetable, so there were a lot of leftovers.”

“Let’s take it to Bobby’s,” Dean says, his breathing evening out in that way that it does just before he falls asleep. Castiel _know that_ , now. He knows how Dean sounds just before he falls asleep, which is still miraculous. “Make it a starter.”

It’s an unconventional declaration of affection, but it’s brilliant all the same. He’s been to half a dozen of the Singer Sunday dinners since this started, with various members of extended not-quite-family. He’s eaten Bobby’s-meatloaf and Ellen’s chicken-roast and Jody’s cookies. One week Sam bought everyone take-out due to a lost bet and Dean usually clubs in to cook _something_. Castiel bringing something to dinner is an invitation into the inner sanctum. It’s much better than a _love you too_.

This isn’t a good day. Dean started out tense and sharp and difficult and then the adrenaline burst, and he asked him to _hold him_ even though, for whatever reason, Dean doesn’t find that easy. Dean is hurting and he has _been hurt_ \--- and Castiel doesn’t even really want to _think_ about that --- but --- 

\--- they are going to take Castiel’s homemade soup-kitchen soup to Bobby Singer’s salvage yard for sunday dinner.

“Yes,” Castiel smiles into the back of his neck. “ _Sleep now_.”

“Yeah, okay,” Dean exhales, “And ---- love you too, Cas.”

Dean Winchester is a very surprising and lovely man. 

*

“Well, you look like warmed up shit,” Bobby comments as they step into the front room. Castiel would make a solid argument that Dean was still handsome and unfairly good looking as he sat on the floor of the bathroom, white as a sheet and clammy last night, but he’d concede to Dean looking like he feels unwell. He looks better than last night or this morning, but he’s still pale and drawn. Neither of them thought to set an alarm before they fell asleep, so they were running late enough that Dean skipped shaving and may still be wearing the t-shirt he was sleeping in under several layers of flannel. 

Sam looks up from his book at Bobby’s words, eyes twisting into concern. 

“Awh, Bobby,” Dean says, clapping him on the shoulder, “Gotta watch this flirting. My boyfriend’s right here.”

“Hello Bobby,” Castiel says, offering a half hearted salute. 

“Cas bought soup,” Dean says, and there’s too much lightness packed into his voice, now. They didn’t talk much on the drive over and now he’s wearing the jovial tone rather than feeling it. He’s used to this, too. Dean’s strategies for brushing over pain aren’t _new_ , but they’re difficult in this context. “He made it.”

“I — helped.”

“Alright then,” Bobby says with an eye roll. “You can heat it up yourself.”

“Always a peach,” Dean says with another too-bright smile, before he pockets his hands and meets his brother’s steady gaze. “Sammy. Got a minute?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, setting his book down carefully and standing up, following Dean into one of Bobby’s other rooms in some wordless agreement. 

“Guess you’re on kitchen duty, Feathers.”

“I —- okay,” Castiel says, following Bobby into the kitchen with the soup in his hands.

“So. Bad night.” Bobby says, handing him a pan with a slight eyebrow raise.

Castiel takes the pan without saying anything. 

As far as he is aware, Bobby knows more about what happened than Castiel, but that’s reading between the lines. Dean stayed with Bobby, after. On the topic of _coming out_ , Dean said that the important people already knew ‘after some stuff went down’ in his first veiled reference to Alastair before they’d had the conversation, which he took to mean Bobby (and, really, that means Dean didn’t exactly come out to any one of the most important people in his life, given Sam ‘figured it out’, John Winchester died without him knowing and Sam effectively told Castiel: of all the things to be upset that Dean had happen to him Castiel supposes this is minor, but it’s still upsetting that Dean never got there on his own). It is very likely that Bobby knows about the nightmares and knows more about the content of the nightmares than Castiel, but it still feels _too private_ to acknowledge it in Bobby’s kitchen.

“Fair enough,” Bobby comments and resuming cooking without further comment. 

When Dean re-enters the kitchen a little while later, he looks slightly better. Tired, yes, but some of the posturing has been dropped, and he looks more at ease with his limbs as he digs out a spoon from the drawer and tastes the sauce. 

“You heard of _salt_ , Bobby,” Dean says, hip-bumping Castiel by the stove and smiling at him.

“Allright, _you_ do it, y’idjit.”

“I’m gonna do us all a favour and do just that,” Dean says, “How goes the soup, Cas?”

“I’m _reheating_ ,” Castiel deadpans.

“You wanna soda, Cas?” Sam says, clearing more space on the table by dumping Bobby’s collection of books onto one of the kitchen counters. He looks more relaxed, too, but… they’re _used to_ this rhythm. Dean told him that Sam is one of his primary support systems and Castiel has bore witness to that, but never quite as obviously as this.

Then again, Dean has been _keeping him out_ and now… he isn’t.

“Allright,”

“By all means, make yourself at home,” Bobby grouses, sitting down on the edge of the table to assess them without a smile, but oozing his usual warmth. 

Castiel didn’t meet Bobby until Dean was fourteen or fifteen, the first time Dean was staying there for long enough and felt settled enough to ask to invite Castiel over. Most of the time, Dean would come over to the Milton House out of practically, sometimes with Sam in tow if he felt guilty about leaving him alone too long. He met John infrequently enough that he was more mythical figure than actual father figure, but still sufficient to develop a strong dislike of the man. He didn’t voice that much, given Dean was still wrestling with idolising him and trying to please him and shouldering the disappointment of John never following through. 

Then Bobby stepped in. It took Castiel a few interactions to understand that Bobby conveys affection with eye rolls and insults. He learnt it through the way Dean and Sam acted around him in juxtaposition to how they used to act around John, without fear of judgement, with that easy-confidence that comes from knowing you’d be accepted. He _saw it_ , but he didn’t really understand it. He never had that at home, either, but Bobby has always been good at extending his gruff welcome to others.

“How did it go yesterday?” Sam asks, handing him a can of coke and taking a seat. “With Naomi.”

“Oh,” Castiel says, stirring his soup and blinking at it. Yesterday, he was _bothered_ by all of it: by going back to his childhood bedroom, having to tolerate Naomi and Dean’s dislike of her. On the other side of _’he’d gone to town on that psychological warfare bullshit, telling me no one gave a fuck where I was with a knife to my throat’_ it all feels remarkable irrelevant. It’s nice of Sam to ask, though. Sam is a good man.“Badly.”

“She hates me,” Dean subs in.

“Dean, I’m sure she doesn’t _hate_ you.” 

“No, Dean is accurate,” Castiel says, “She does hate him.” 

“I ruined his life,” Dean says.

“Yup, looks like it,” Bobby comments, “How long until this damn soup?”

“Uh --- it’s bubbling,” Castiel says, frowning at the pan. He hadn’t really _noticed_ , but… he’s very tired and a large amount of things have happened in the past two days. “So, now.”

“D’you get your stuff, at least?” Sam asks, standing up to pass him some bowls and a ladle.

“I - - some of it,” Castiel says, “She was very impolite, so we left.”

“ _She_ was impolite,” Sam says, glancing back at Dean with an eyebrow raise, “So Dean didn’t go all _alpha male_ and start an argument.”

“Hey.”

“Less alpha male than dealing with my colleagues in New York.”

“That guy was an asshole.”

“Ishim _is_ an asshole,” Castiel agrees, spooning soup into the bowl that’s Sam holding. “But I could have handled it.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean says, turning the heat down on the sauce and taking his usual seat. “Guy was a fucking chump. Not sorry about calling him out on it.”

“Well, that sucks Cas,” Sam says, taking his own bowl of soup and sitting down at the table. Castiel takes the final bowl and sits down, too, at the place at the table he’s inhabited for six or so Sunday lunches. “Sorry you had to deal with it.”

“I am --- used to it,” Castiel says heavily, “Naomi’s disapproval is not Dean-specific. She has always found me disappointing.” 

“Woman’s fucked in the head,” Dean says, because he is charming like that, “What’s not to like? Soup’s good, Cas.” 

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, taking another spoonful of the stuff and offering him a smile. Sam is normally generous and supportive, but he’s definitely making an extra effort on the other side of whatever conversation they had in Bobby’s study and Castiel doesn’t really know what that _means_. “It’s great, Cas.”

The soup _is_ good, actually. Rich and the right level of salty. Hearty.

“So,” Bobby says, fixing him with one of those almost-fatherly looks, “How d’you like this soup kitchen?” 

*

“You’re quiet,” Dean says, after they’ve pulled out of the salvage yard and turned onto the road after eating too much Spag Bol and ending up watching some basketball game because it was on and because Dean was ‘too full to drive’. Castiel switched off during the game because he’s never had any interest in organised sport and it was pleasant enough just to think about the solid line of Dean’s thigh pressed against his on the sofa and to think about Bobby and Sam quizzing him about the Soup Kitchen and editing his father’s books like they are genuinely interested, but then he started _thinking_ again. “I --- I get it,” Dean says, “Heavy weekend.” 

“Tell me about Sam.” Castiel says, catching his eye in the rearview mirror. He sounds more sure than he really feels, because he didn’t _intend_ to start another intense conversation today, but his emotions are getting the better of him again and… he didn’t _press_ last night because he wanted to, it’s just difficult to wade into complicated family dynamics without understanding the full story. It’s frustrating not fully understanding _Dean_ , who he’s known and loved since he was basically a child, and now there are _gaps_. 

If Dean had another nightmare tonight, he’d feel just as unqualified and helpless as he did last night.

“Uh,” Dean says, “Tall kid, spends too much time at the gym, works too hard. Needs a haircut.”

“About _you_ and Sam.”

“He’s --- he’s Sam. He’s my brother.”

“I am fully aware of your blood relationship with your brother, Dean.” Castiel says, “You spoke to him about last night. That’s why you said we had to come to Bobby’s today.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “D’you --- you not have a good time, or something?”

“It was good spaghetti bolognese.” 

“After I rescued it,” Dean says, “You know I _taught you_ that evasive side stepping the question bullshit.”

“I like spending time with your family and I enjoyed having lunch with Bobby and Sam today. I just want to understand why you needed to speak to your brother.” Castiel finishes, but the words are a little off. What he really wants to know is _what_ Sam said that helped, so he can do the same, but he knows it doesn’t work like that. _Sam and Dean_ work like that because they've been working on this rhythm for years, while they have been doing it for months.

He’s impatient. There are parts of Dean that he doesn’t understand. He was arrogant enough to think he understood Dean completely as a teenager, but he was wrong about _so much_.

“Because that’s our deal,” Dean says, tightening his grip on the wheel. “That I tell him what’s going on in my head, without conditions.”

“Dean,”

“Look, I get that it’s annoying, me and Sam, but ---”

“--- I am not asking because I find it objectionable, I just don’t understand.” Castiel interjects, “The Dean I am accustomed to does not talk about how he _feels_ , especially to his little brother.” 

Dean exhales.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s --- different.”

“It’s good,” Castiel says, “You have… a better equilibrium than I’ve seen you have before.”

“Yeah?” Dean asks, looking away from the road to glance at him. 

“Mostly, I’ve seen your sense of obligation to look after your brother make you tense and insecure.” 

“Sounds about right,” Dean says, with a half-bitter smile that leaves his mouth before he really commits to it. “Yeah, spent a lot of my life pretty sure that Sam was just trying to get away from me. That he’d run off to college and leave me in the dust. Figured, I dunno, that he --- that I was never gonna feature on the list of Sam’s priorities but… he came through for me. Completely. I, uh,” Dean continues, “Little hard to keep believing that after everything he did.”

Castiel waits him out. He’s not really sure what he’s waiting for or whether Dean will pick up the thread of the conversation and press on with it or not, but that’s fine. He does _know_ that he needs to be patient and understanding and considerate and parts of it are easy and parts of it takes a great deal of effort, but he will _do it_. 

He didn’t really understand it all when Dean told him _dealing with my shit ain’t exactly a picnic_ , but he isn’t wrong. It is beyond _worth it_ (he’d do more just to have their friendship back, let alone the part where he gets to kiss the man), but it is not easy.

“He…” Dean begins, “I woke up in hospital.”

“You were found in a motel by a cleaner.” Castiel says, because Dean told him that part. He has every word that Dean has told him about this memorised and repeated in his attempts to try and ‘process it’ and… he _has_ , as much as he could. There are too many gaps to contextualise all of it, but he’s still wary about what he’d do if they were filled. 

“Yeah,” Dean exhales, “Yeah. I don’t remember that part. Jury’s out on whether that’s because I was blackout drunk or if I just blacked out. Sam’s probably got some medical report somewhere he could drag out that would clear that up, but...”

“Dean,” Catiel says, “How long had you been gone?” 

“Uh,” Dean says, “Shit. We really haven’t talked about this. A year, thereabouts. Was _involved_ ,” Dean says, framing the word like he finds the term objectionable but doesn’t have a better one, “For two years, total, but the last year or so we were on the road. That was --- few months after your wedding, we took off.” 

_Two years_. 

That’s almost as long as Castiel’s entire marriage. 

“Sam must have been worried.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, shifting his grip on the steering wheel. Talking about this in the impala was a good idea, even if it wasn’t really premeditated. Dean has always been more relaxed in his car. He looks as calm as Castiel has ever seen him while talking about this and he makes a mental note for next time they have to revisit this. “We --- we weren’t talking that much, anyway. Mixture of Alastair and some dumb fight about him taking off to school but, yeah, he was freaked. Alastair kept my phone, sent him a message every couple of weeks. Generic crap. Fake locations. He wasn’t buying it, and then he got a call from the hospital.” 

Dean _didn’t have a phone_. It feels obvious, now that Dean has said it, but he hadn’t thought about it before. He knew that Dean was _missing_ because he knew that Dean was found, but it hadn’t occurred to him that he didn’t have access to his phone. That he was _trapped_. That even if he’d wanted to, Dean couldn’t contact him, or Sam, or the _police_.

Dean changed his phone number because _his phone was taken_ rather than an active choice for his safety.

“Did he know about Alastair?”

“He knew there was a guy,” Dean says, “Dunno if I ever gave him a name, but Sam was pretty used to me being a little cagey about that.”

“You said Sam knew you were interested in men.”

“Oh yeah, he saw right through me,” Dean says, with that slightly-bitter smile again that Castiel will press, on another day. He wants to know _why_ Dean was cagey. He wants to know him. All of him. They have a lot to talk about. “‘Cause of you, mostly. Didn’t mean I talked about it much.”

“Okay,” Castiel says, brow furrowed. “Did they call your father?”

“No, thank fuck,” Dean says, “Best pre-Alistair decisions I ever made were getting freaking medical insurance and changing my next of kin to Sammy. Still wound up near enough bankrupt, but no, Dad --- Dad didn’t know a damn thing about any of this.”

“He came to the hospital alone?” Castiel presses forward, because it’s preferable to thinking about Dean nearly being forced into medical bankruptcy while Castiel was losing hundreds of thousands on his idiotic crucade against Milton & Milton. It _didn’t happen_ , but he still feels residual guilt. 

“Yeah,” Dean says, “Well, he was at college and, as it turns out, he was only a couple of hours drive away. And, uh, think they gave him enough detail on the phone that Sam figured I wouldn’t want Dad anywhere near any of it, but I --- I don’t think he was really prepared for it, cause when I came around he just… He cried. Sammy. Never seen him cry like that, but he was —- incredible. He —- he just, came through for me, a hundred percent.” Dean says, with his words thick and slipping into emotion, again. Dean’s always talked about his brother with pride and admiration, but there’s something more personal about it now. Grittier. 

He cannot imagine how small Sam must have felt sitting in a hospital chair, waiting for Dean to wake up with these injuries fresh and bloody after months of wondering where he was. The loneliness and the guilt. 

“He spoke to the doctors and the police, the public attorney assigned to my case, he —- god, Cas. He sat up with me through panic attacks, when _I_ cried, he —- I wasn’t, I wasn’t functional, I was broken, just. Didn’t really _speak_ for a couple of weeks, just locked in my head with all this shit, and Sam —- he drove us back here and briefed Bobby and just — medical insurance and therapy and fucking _Dad_ — he intercepted the whole goddamn world for me. He went and picked up the impala, rescued her from rusting up in this parking lot out in goddamn Illinois. Guess Alastair knew the crap he was feeding me about how no one was ever gonna look for me was a load of shit, because he was pretty --- _persuasive_ about how baby had to go. She’s pretty distinctive. Repressed a lot of that year for a long time, but telling Sammy exactly where she was parked up was near enough the second thing I said.”

He doesn’t want to know what _persuasive_ means in this context. He thinks it might make him sick.

“Of course it was,” Castiel says, forehead creased. “She’s the _impala_.” 

“Yeah,” Dean smiles. “Sam drove back here every freaking weekend, basically. Drove through the night to sit with me, this shaky, fucking wreck of a human. Arranged his college classes to clear his Friday afternoons cause I wouldn’t let him ditch a whole semester. Went with me to my first couple of therapy appointments, and uh—- they, said I could either try taking some drugs to help with the flashbacks and the panic, or I could talk it out, and I couldn’t…. I couldn’t do it, then. Was too tired. Too broken. So I took the drug option, and Sam — he wanted me to talk, but he didn’t even say anything, just followed my lead. He got me the restraining order and he came with me to court, talked to the DA, talked to the DAs office, stayed up all night watching fucking looney tunes. Spent all his vacation time just — doing whatever the hell he could. It cost him a lot, you know. He had some serious girlfriend before all of this. His grades took a dip. I broke his fucking heart, with borrowing that money for in the first place, and, in the middle of all of that, I promised him I’d drop the goddam front and tell him what was going on in my head, always, and he promised not to —- trust my judgment, treat me like an adult, not worry more than he needed to. He saved my life, Cas. Over and over.”

It’s difficult to imagine Dean as this person he talks about. Seeing Dean after last night was jarring enough, but _Dean_ silent and crying, setting aside his stubborn self-sacrificial tendencies to let Sam rearrange his college schedule. Not sleeping. _A shaky fucking wreck of a human_. 

“Your brother is an incredible human being.”

“Yeah, he is,” Dean smiles, “But, that’s the deal. I tell him everything and he keeps his gigantor Sam-freakouts to a minimum and, these days, we’re pretty good at it. So --- yeah. I told him about last night. Talked about us, a little, but mostly he reminded me that a lot of bad shit happened and sometimes it bleeds through, and that I’m pretty good at keepin’ grinding.”

“Do you think,” Castiel says, looking deliberately out the window and hating himself for even thinking about it, because this isn’t about _them_ , this is about _Dean_. “Will we ever have that?”

“Honestly,” Dean says, “I don’t know.”

Castiel isn’t really sure what he was expecting, but it feels a little like someone has punctured his lung and he sits there and tries to think past it until Dean pulls into the parking lot of his apartment, kills the engine and turns to look at him. 

“I’m,” Dean swallows and looks at him, “Not sure if that’s even a good idea. I don’t know if it’s healthy.”

“Sam makes things better,” Castiel says, “I make them --- complicated.”

“Don’t do that,” Dean says, “If there was _ever_ a moment for the it’s not you, it’s me shit, this is it.”

“Sam was there,” Castiel says, “I understand that, Dean. I am _glad_ that he was there, but --- I hate the idea of you being in so much pain and not knowing about it.” 

“I know,” Dean says, “It's better this way.”

“Dean, I would have —-” 

“Oh I know, sunshine,” Dean says, “But, I was _vulnerable,_ Cas, and you would —- you’d have been so goddamn aware of that, and you’re so fucking considerate I don’t think this could’ve ever happened, If you were there, then. And yeah, this is --- this is complicated. Sam was in the trenches with me, Cas, he knows the grizzly horror of it all, and ---- I just know that this is new for you and I’m trying to be considerate of that fact, then I go throw that crap on you this morning like I’m deliberately trying to upset you ---”

“ --- You don’t have to treat me like a child, either.” Castiel interrupts, “ _No kid gloves_ work both ways.”

“So does not ripping off the fucking bandaid,” Dean says, “Cas, Sam --- propped me up, for years, and it’s only recently that it feels _reciprocal_. And I ---- I had to make peace with that. I needed help. I relied on him when I didn’t have a single thing to offer anyone and…I’m not saying I couldn’t have lived without a lot of the stuff that happened, but I was pigheaded mess, insecure and dumb, and —- I don’t know what _else_ could’ve made me wake up to the reality that there are a lot of damn good people who care about me, who’d do just about everything in their power to help me, and —- most days of the week, I don’t regret it. _Parts of it._ How it escalated. But, uh, the core bones of it? If that’s what it took for me to believe that my brother would die for me, then I’ll take it, but if it’s all the same, I’d rather take the fact that _you love me_ on face value than learn it the hard way.”

“How you _told me_ that information this morning isn’t what upset me, Dean,” Castiel says, “It’s not the first time you have snapped at me to mask the fact that you’re having emotions. The _content_ was upsetting, but I told you I wanted to know.” 

“Cas, I’m not looking for a free pass for acting like an asshole because I’m broken.”

“You’re _not broken_ ,” Castiel returns, “And it’s not a _free pass_ , Dean, it’s basic human consideration and the fact that _I know you_.”

“I didn’t want any of this shit to affect our relationship,” Dean says, “Just _adjusting_ to the fact that that’s never going to happen, and --- _you did_ make last night better, Cas. Haven’t got that much sleep on a night that bad for a long damn time. Hell, haven’t had company for that shitshow for _two years_ and it was…great, actually, I just don’t wanna _tell you that_ and make you feel like it’s _your job_ , when you didn’t sign up to babysit my baggage. But --- I _will_ be honest with you and we _will_ talk about this and this _will_ get easier, but it’s going to take time.”

“I used to think I understood you best in the whole world,” Castiel says, “That was --- arrogant.”

“You did,” Dean sighs, reaching out and resting a hand on his knee. The touch helps to thaw out his insides a little, but it doesn’t change the fact that Dean answers in the past tense. “ _You did_ , Cas. The only reason you didn’t see right through me was your own crappy self esteem. You _know_ me.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing with these _gaps_.”

“You think you’re the only one?” Dean says, “You had this whole life I don’t understand, that you barely talk about.”

“I,” Castiel, “I’m _trying_.”

“Cas,” Dean says, looking at him, deliberate and stripped back from everything else. No angry front, or too bolshy jokes; just Dean. “If I thought sitting here and telling you every single thing about Alastair in one go would help, I’d do it, no matter how damn uncomfortable it would be. I’m just trying to work out the best way to handle all this.”

“I know,” Castiel says, “Dean, you told me you’d rather something blew up in your face than for me to try and anticipate your triggers, because you don’t want me to be careful around me. I don’t want you to be careful around me, either. I will tell you if you are telling me something I can’t handle.”

“Will you?” Dean says, “Or are you gonna sit there and _take it_ because you think it’s your duty, even if it’s eating you up.”

“If you _need me_ to be there for you ---”

“Castiel,” Dean says, with his eyes fixed and serious enough that it’s almost-paralysing. Dean _never_ calls him Castiel and it’s… today is not a good day. “ I’m not saying I’m not crazy, but I’ve got a pretty good lid on it. Gotta helluva therapy bill and years of hard fucking work, so I’m pretty far from going full Britney. Can’t think of a single situation that could come up that means you’d have to sacrifice your own mental wellbeing to hear me out, so --- you want honesty, okay, but I need you to promise me that you’ll look after yourself. I can’t _live_ with you martyring yourself to be there for me, or to out do Sam, or whatever hell else. You gotta talk to me.”

“Allright,” Castiel says, “I have been thinking about what you said this morning.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, rubbing a hand over his forehead, “So have I.” 

“I cared where you were, Dean,” Castiel says,”If I’d _known_ , I would have torn the world down to save you. The first year of my marriage I missed you like a physical weight, and then I got used to missing you.” 

“Alastair always did talk a lot of shit,” Dean says, “I _know_ , Cas. Know that you missed me. That’s how I get up every damn morning, because it wasn’t _true_ , which means they’re just scars, and they’re just bad dreams. Most of the time.” Dean adds, “You, uh. Wouldn’t hold it against you, if you needed to walk away.”

Yesterday, they talked about _forever._

“Dean.”

“I gotta say it,” Dean says, voice low, “It’s not your responsibility. You can take the out.”

“I am _not interested_ in your out,” Castiel says, “I _told you_ you’re the love of my life. How could you _think_ that I —?”

“ — I don’t,” Dean says, “I _don’t_ , but I — gotta point out your options.” 

“It is _not an option_.” Castiel spits out, the words coming out thicker with emotion than he’d like, but --- Dean is frustrating and stubborn and self-sacrificial and Castiel has _only just got him back_ , after every dumb thing Castiel's ever done, and things have started to feel _right_. He doesn’t know what he’s _doing_ , because at some point he’s going to run out of books to edit and run out of places to volunteer and run out of netflix and everything is going to start to feel like the walls are closing in again, but he has Dean. ‘ _Yeah, I want you forever’_ , Dean, who’s offering up some inane solution like _walking away_ like Castiel would ever dream of leaving after one bad night.

He’s expecting Dean to argue the point, but apparently enough of _that_ is written all over Castiel’s face, because Dean just assesses him for a few moments. 

“Okay,” Dean says.

“Okay,” Castiel repeats, his lungs filling with oxygen again.

_Okay_. 

“You —- are you staying tonight?” Dean asks, twisting the impala keys round his hands.

It hadn’t really occurred to him that he _wouldn’t_ stay over tonight, but… that was presumptuous. He hasn’t actually _been_ home since Wednesday and then he only slept at his own apartment on Tuesday night, because it felt strange to sit in Dean’s apartment and watch TV while he was at his therapy appointment. In reality, it’s not that different to spending the day in Dean’s apartment while he was at work and he’s done that for most of the week, but —- 

He’s been intruding. He _should_ go home. Allow Dean some space.

“No,” Castiel frowns, “I should go home” 

“If you want,” Dean half-shrugs, finally making a move toward the car door, “Not yet, though. This weekend _sucked_ , gotta pull it back somehow.”

“It did suck,” Castiel agrees, stepping out of Dean’s car. 

“I’m thinking Star Wars marathon.”

“I draw the line at twice in a month, Dean,” Castiel says, “Pick something else.”

“Uh, Lord of the rings,” Dean says, grabbing the tupperware out of the backseat and locking his car.

“Too long.”

“Don’t have to watch all of it,”

“Then what’s the point?”

“Yeah, fair,” Dean throws back, “Allright, you pick.”

“Harry Potter.”

“Nope,”

“Too nerdy?” Castiel substitutes.

“Wrong kind of nerdy,” Dean says, “What a way to make wizards less badass.” 

“You’re a _much_ bigger nerd than me,” Castiel says, which wins him one of his favourite ‘trying not to smile’ expressions and no return argument. “We could watch one of your Cowboy movies.”

“Awh, you ruin them,” Dean says, “All your damn history lessons.”

“I thought the appeal entirely boiled down to _men in cowboy boots_ and I struggle to see how pointing out the historical inaccuracies ruins the aesthetic.” Castiel says, as they reach the door of Dean’s apartment. 

“They also _have guns_.” 

“I don’t know how I ever believed you didn’t want to go full Brokeback Mountain.”

“We should get you a cowboy hat,” Dean says, “You’d look _great_ in a cowboy hat.”

“No,” Castiel says, mostly to see Dean’s expression. It’s appropriately mock-offended and too lovely not to reach forward and kiss it off his face. There’s very little that he would not do for Dean Winchester and he’s relatively sure that a cowboy hat wouldn’t make the list, even if it’s ridiculous. “Back to the Future.”

“Good call,” Dean says, “Coffee?”

“Mmm,” Castiel hums in agreement, “I love you.”

“Ditto,” Dean says, kissing the corner of his mouth, briefly, before he heads for the coffee pot.

The weekend _does_ feel better after he’s settled on the sofa with his legs on dressing-gown-clad-Dean’s lap, an extra strong coffee and Back to the Future blaring from the television. 

Dean falls asleep somewhere in the middle of the second movie he insisted on putting on, while Castiel was in the middle of texting Naomi to ask if he can come back tomorrow (he doesn’t _want_ to, but he’s aware that he may regret it if she makes good on her threat to throw out her belongings; bringing Dean was an error of judgement and there’s a chance she’ll be less antagonistic if he goes alone). 

He looks younger asleep. Peaceful. Except, his t-shirts half ridden up in the process, with the scar he’d declared was the source of his nightmare just visible. Castiel has _seen_ them because he’s seen Dean naked and gorgeous, fresh from the shower, or twisted up in bedsheets with him, but he hasn’t really _looked_ other than that first conversation. 

Castiel didn’t _want_ to look at Dean and see the things that happened to him, because it felt like a betrayal of sorts. It felt like Dean would rather he didn’t think about them, or focus on them, and there are enough interesting and preferable things to focus on when Dean is _naked_ for that to be easy. Perhaps that was naive. _This_ Dean has scars and history and hurts and it feels just as unrespectful to pretend they’re not there.

_This_ scar starts just above his hip in a place that’s still hidden by his t-shirt and follows one, nearly-straight line to the top of his thigh, which means that Dean was probably naked at the time. That, or Alastair cut through his clothing too, but it’s too precise, too straight for that to be feasible. It’s --- it’s not a nice thought, but.... Dean needs him to be realistic about this. He needs him not to be shocked or blindsighted by things like this morning, where Dean starts spilling truth because he was feeling cornered and vulnerable and trying to get back control and… Castiel has enough information to do that if he starts actively thinking about it. He will ask about the rest of it, at good moments, or at bad moments when he can’t stop thinking about it, because Dean said he could.

He does _know_ Dean. He knows him very well.

Castiel turns off the movie. 

It’s late enough that they should probably eat something, so he dislodges himself from the sofa and pads around Dean’s kitchen. Dean usually buys groceries at the weekend which has yet to happen, which means options are limited. Castiel’s not very good at cooking, anyway, so he settles on grilled cheese. 

Dean said _’if you want’_ when Castiel said he wasn’t going to stay the night, then cajoled him into a movie, then insisted that it was an incomplete cinematic experience if they didn’t watch the full trilogy. He’s known Dean since he was twelve and he’s well-versed in the Dean Communication Handbook to know that’s a request to stay, he was just distracted enough about everything else not to notice at the time.

Castiel doesn’t _want_ to go home to his empty apartment and his single houseplant, anyway, he just thought he should. There's no point both of them losing because they can't communicate. 

As the grill heats up, he heads into the bedroom and pulls on a pair of Dean’s pyjama bottoms and one of his old t-shirts. Castiel can communicate wordlessly, too. He can express romantic sentiments with cooking grilled cheese and cowboy hats if that’s what it takes. He can decipher Dean’s codes _and_ remind him when he needs to use his words and they _will_ get to an easy equilibrium where both of them can just say what they want. He _can_ handle this, because this is _Dean_ , and re-watching an old movie with him unconscious in his dressing gown is still better than any other date he’s ever had, because Dean has always seen him for who he is and liked him for it.

“Hey,” Dean says, when Castiel comes back to the sofa with two plates of grilled cheese and a soft smile. “You staying?”

“Yes,” Castiel says, sitting back down next to him and offering him his food.

“Awesome,” Dean exhales.

*

Dean’s alarm is much too early in the morning but Castiel is accustomed to pretending it doesn’t exist. Dean rolling into his space, close and warm, and whispering _'morning, Cas'_ into his ear is much more difficult to ignore. 

“Dean,” Castiel mutters, shutting his eyes a little tighter and burying his face further into his pillow.

“I was thinking,” Dean says, pressed against his back, breath hot in his ear, “Got thirty minutes till I gotta go to work. Forty, if I abuse my privilege as pseudo-son of the boss. So. Any ideas of how to pass the time?”

“Sleeping,” Castiel says.

“Not tired.” Dean throws back, enough of that light hearted mischief in his voice that Castiel is sure that he’s in a very good mood. He is pleased about that, but mostly he wants to chase down the evaporating tendrils of sleep and wrap himself in them. 

“Dean, the one benefit of unemployment is not having to get out of bed at this time of the morning.” 

“Never said anything about getting out of bed.”

Castiel makes an inaudible noise into his pillow, which he hopes conveys that he is far too tired for this conversation, with an acknowledgment that Dean is very charming and lovely and that he isn’t rejecting him for any other reason than the fact that the concept of moving, at all, is very unappealing. 

“Fair enough,” Dean says, dropping a kiss on to his cheek and climbing out of bed, dispelling Castiel’s warm cocoon of sleepy comfort and warmth. “But _tonight_ I’ve got plans for you, sunshine.” 

“It’s too early to be propositioned,” Castiel says, dislodging himself from his pillow to look at him now that the bed is too cold and too empty, anyway. Dean does look much better than he did yesterday, with his easy smile and soft ‘ _don’t worry about it_ look'. He’s well rested and happy and, apparently, horny, “But I’m sure future Castiel is thrilled.”

“He’s gonna be something alright,” Dean says, “I’ll get you some coffee.”

“Thank you,” Castiel mutters blearily, pulling the covers back round himself in an attempt to preserve warmth.

He’s about halfway through his delivered coffee when Dean wanders back in after his shower, with a towel tied around his waist as he digs around his room for clean clothes, and —-

It’s unreasonable for someone to look so appealing trying to find clean underwear. Castiel knows he’s biased, but Dean really is _gorgeous_ , with the exquisite line of his shoulders and those arms. It’s a great shame that he bothered with the towel, because in recent months Castiel has become intimately acquainted with what’s underneath it.

“What are you up to today?”

“I’m going back to Naomi’s,”

“Since when?”

“Since she still has all of my childhood belongings,” Castiel says, watching as Dean pulls his jeans over his hips. It’s a shame, really, for an excellent part of his view to be covered up. “We discussed it yesterday. It will be —- fine.”

“Cas.”

“Dean, she _raised me_.”

“Yeah, that’s the problem,” Dean says, pulling on a t-shirt. Castiel resists the urge to pout about that and takes another sip of his coffee, instead, continuing to watch Dean move around his room. “Just don’t let her talk to you like you’re not a fucking miracle.”

“Allright,” Castiel says. He’s not entirely sure what he’s agreeing to, but he likes the way Dean’s mouth looks when he says the word ‘fucking’.

“I’ll leave the key on the table.”

“Okay,” Castiel agrees.

“Hope it doesn’t suck,” Dean says, “Later, Cas.”

“You too,” Castiel says, draining the rest of his coffee and thinking about Dean pressed up against him, close and delicious; _never said anything about getting out of bed_. 

He thinks about it a little more as he stumbles to the bathroom to brush his teeth, because there are many many hours until Dean finishes work. He’s found the empty spaces in his day slightly daunting, lately, and the Soup Kitchen don’t need any volunteers on a Monday. He’s not expected until Naomi’s until lunch, but he can fill the rest of the time with digging back into his father’s books and trying to polish them into something _publishable_ in a nod to his father’s dream. Today, he’s more preoccupied with the fact that those hours are going to be _Deanless_ rather than empty.

_I’ve got plans for you, Sunshine_. 

He likes it when Dean uses pet names. 

When he makes it to the kitchen, Dean is halfway through eating some toast and scrolling through his phone. He’s still shower-fresh and gorgeous and he looks happy in his own skin again. Settled and confident and relaxed. 

“How many minutes until you have to go to work?”

“Uh,” Dean says, glancing at his phone, “Five.”

“Hmm.” Castiel says, eyes raking over him deliberately. “That’s not very long.”

Dean looks at him for a beat and puts down his toast.

“Ten,” He corrects. Castiel raises an eyebrow at him. “Definitely fifteen.” 

“Better,” Castiel says, slowly. “Much better.” 

*

After he leaves the Milton House, he drives to his father’s grave. 

He hasn’t been here for months but, after his frosty welcome from Naomi and sifting through more of his memories then he really wanted to dwell on, it seemed like he should take the twenty minute detour to the graveyard. 

Technically, his father might not be here after the infernal debate about whether to bury him here or near the Beach House, but there is a headstone and an inscription and some dead flowers that turn something over in his stomach. It’s stupid that they bother him so much, or that he feels helpless and guilty for turning up empty handed, but it hadn't occurred to him to get flowers.

His father didn’t _like_ flowers, as far as Castiel knows. They never had a particular conversation about it, but the list of things that they never had an actual conversation about is a lengthy one, given that he would disappear for months and months at a time, and given that Castiel has nine siblings and given that Castiel _cut him out_ for most of the last decade. He doesn’t _think_ his father liked flowers, but he doesn’t actually know. 

Naomi keeps them in the house. He could have stolen some, which would have been satisfying in some ways, but would probably be a poor tribute to his father. He is relatively sure that Naomi’s hard-fisted approach to their lives is part of what drove his father to take off, choosing to _run away_ in the face of his parenting responsibilities, his guilt and his indecision about doing the right thing, but ---

\--- He still doesn’t know whether he is angry with him or not. He keeps _pouring himself out_ into his damn books that he wrote when he was hiding from all of them, rather than stepping to the plate, like that will somehow give him some insight into what he _thought_ about anything. 

Chuck did tell him to get back in contact with Dean. In the nearest thing to a deathbed confession Castiel ever got, Castiel said he forgave him because he knew that he was supposed to say that and he’d regret it if he didn’t, even though he didn’t really mean it, and Chuck said _’I’m sorry Castiel'_ and he said that he’d been in semi-frequent contact with Dean. _'Go to him'_ , he said, _'Talk. Forgive him. He loves you'_. Castiel doesn’t know if Chuck knew that Dean was _in_ love with him, or how he got that from the brief interactions they had, or if Chuck comforted himself with the idea of Dean helping him through his grief.

He does know that if Dean hadn’t come to the funeral, he was going to find him anyway.

He calls Gabriel.

“Castiel, as I live and breathe,”

“Hello, Gabriel,” Castiel replies, “How are you?”

“Uh, I’m fine Cassie, how are you?”

“Allright,” Castiel says, rereading the inscription of his father’s gravestone. They went simple, in the end. _Chuck Shurley, father and grandfather_ and the dates. There was some argument putting ‘beloved father’ or more of a reference to their mother, but then everyone started arguing. 

“So you’re just…. Ringing for a chat?”

“You told me to _check in_.”

“Told you to shot tequila off that stripper’s body and you didn’t listen to me then, so excuse me for being surprised about you listening to me now.” Gabriel throws back, which is Gabriel-enough that it makes him smile.

“It wasn’t an appropriate response to _Gabriel, I’m getting divorced_.”

“What planet are you living on?” Gabriel asks, “It’s the _only_ response.”

“As much as I love to discuss strippers with you,” Castiel says, “I am at our father’s grave.”

“Which one?”

“I’ve been at home.”

“The Milton House, home?” Gabriel says, “Bet that was a barrel of laughs.”

“I had lunch with Naomi,” 

“Why?”

“Because,” Castiel says, “She threatened to throw away all my belongings and then she invited me for lunch. It was …. Fine.”

“Oh sure,” Gabriel says, “Because _any_ of that is fine. You okay?”

“Yes,” Castiel says, “It wasn’t enjoyable, but I am _okay_.”

“How’s things with ken doll?”

“It is…. complicated,” Castiel settles on, because he doesn’t want to _lie_. It is good. Dean is incredible: thoughtful, fun, strong. He is attractive and attentive and _lovely_ and Castiel wants to bury himself closer and closer into Dean’s sphere forever, but it is also _complicated_. “Good,” Castiel continues, “But --- complicated.”

“Care to elaborate, Cassie.”

“No,” Castiel says, pressing the phone a little closer to his ear and searching for the words. “It’s…. Private. We had a difficult weekend but I am… optimistic.”

“Fine,” Gabriel says, “Just…. He being good to you, Cassie?”

Castiel thinks about Dean, with his arms wrapped around him, muttering _'how are you doing, Cas_?' Dean gritting his teeth and humming Metallica on the flight to New York. Dean taking up an unreasonable amount of space on Castiel’s bed, reading over his book edits. Dean cooking him dinner and teasing him about watering his house plant.

“Yes,” Castiel smiles, “He is being very good to me.”

“That’s okay then,” Gabriel says, “Still rocking the unemployment shtick?”

“Yes,” Castiel says and then he tells him about the soup kitchen and editing Chuck’s books and Gabriel tells him about his latest insane business venture and about how Naomi was a very poor substitute for their mother and they talk for long enough that he entirely loses track of time and realises entirely too late that he’s got the only key to Dean’s apartment.

When he rings Dean from his car, he’s very nonplussed about the whole thing ( _’can handle getting into my own apartment, Cas’_ ) asks him to come back via a shop and texts him a groceries list. 

It’s all very _domestic_.

“I --- sorry, Dean, I lost track of time,” Castiel says, coming through the door to find Dean _is_ in his apartment (so apparently he _can_ handle breaking into his apartment without a key), chopping onions.

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean says, pausing to kiss him as he takes the bag of groceries, “How did it go?”

“Okay,” Castiel says, as Dean tips the onions into the pan. He’s sure that they will talk about it in more detail at some point, but he’s beginning to feel slightly saturated with emotion. Talking to Gabriel was good and productive but now he’s empty of any more words to talk about his feelings. There’s been far too much of it in the last couple of days. “Long.” 

“Well, we’re gonna have a good night,”

“I do need to go home, at some point,” Castiel says, regretfully. “I have to water my plant.”

“Not _tonight_ ,” Dean says, “For a start, I owe you for this morning.”

“I’m not sure you’re supposed to keep a tally.”

“That really the hill you wanna die on?” Dean asks, quirking an eyebrow at him.

Castiel leans against the counter and considers this. On balance, Dean looks even _better_ than he did this morning, with an excellent black t-shirt that shouldn’t look that good given how simple it is, completely at ease as he adds rice to the pan.

“Alright,” Castiel concedes, “I demand reciprocal oral sex immediately.”

Dean’s smile is worth approximately sixteen difficult weekends of emotional tension and dredging up old hurts. 

He is _beautiful_. 

“You’re gonna have to wait, hotstuff, because I’m cooking risotto.”

“For two?”

“Already told you you’re staying tonight,” Dean says, “Go home tomorrow, if you have to.”

“I’ve run out of clothes,” Castiel says, watching as Dean adds the white wine he had Castiel pick up to the pan, feeling suitably warm and satisfied about Dean’s strategies to _keep him here_.

“Wear mine,” Dean says, “Hell, do some laundry. Sure you can find a better youtube how-to than last time.”

“Dean,” Castiel says, “I left food in the fridge.”

“Now I know you’re talking crap,” Dean says, “ _Never_ seen real life freaking food in your fridge.”

“I’ll leave tomorrow morning and I'll come back on Wednesday, after game’s night.” Castiel says, dropping his voice to the _intimate_ version to try and communicate the fact that he doesn’t _want_ to go. On balance, he’d much rather be _here_ with Dean cooking him nice food and bickering with him about movies than be in his apartment alone, but… it’s nearly a week since he last went home. He _should_ go home.

“Okay,” Dean concedes, turning the heat down on the pan and setting his spoon down so he can cross the kitchen and kiss him.

“I have something for you,” Castiel says, when Dean pulls back.

“Oh yeah?”

“I bought it for you when we were fourteen,” Castiel says, digging his hand into his coat pocket to pull it out. He’d found it at the bottom of one of the cupboards as he was digging through his high school assignments and childhood toys. He’d forgotten that it existed years ago, then he set aside a child’s chess board to give to goodwill and found this tiny, impala shaped keyring. “I forgot about it.”

“Huh,” Dean says, as Castiel opens his fist and shows it to him. “Hey, that’s my baby.”

“Yes,” Castiel says, “I had it made.”

“You were a fucking _adorable_ fourteen year old,” Dean says, taking it from the palm of his hand and running his thumb over the top of the car hood. “How come it’s eighteen years late?”

“Your father was angry at Sam and told you he’d _give her to you over his dead body_ ,” Castiel says, “You were upset and… and then I decided it was stupid and I hid it in my wardrobe and forgot about it.”

“Cas,” Dean says, with a smile that’s so affectionate and lovely that he wants to keep it forever, “This was never stupid.”

“I’m sorry it’s late,” Castiel says, “But you can have it now.”

“Got a better idea,” Dean says, “You still got my key?”

“Yes,” Castiel says, reaching back into his pocket and pulling out both his own keys and the key to Dean’s apartment. Dean takes both of them, twisting Castiel’s keys through his fingers until he can get at the ring and then --- then he slides both the key to Dean’s apartment and the miniature impala onto Castiel’s keys. “You,” Castiel begins, frowning as Dean twists them round his fingers again and puts them back in Castiel’s pocket. “Dean.”

“Got you a key last week,” Dean says, settling with his hands on Castiel’s hips, chest-to-chest, and….and _Castiel is crazy about this man_. He loves him to distraction. Dean is beautiful and sweet and is _giving him a key to his apartment_. He adores him. “I love it. Love _you_. And now you’ve gotta _me_ symbol in your pocket, to remind you how _un-fucking-stupid_ all of this is.” 

He is going to be with this man forever. 

They have things to work out, obviously. They still have lots of things to discuss and whole swathes of history and hurts to dig into and dissect, but Dean has gotten him a key and is cooking risotto and wants him to stay. They are going to be sickeningly happy, Castiel is sure of it. He _is_ sickeningly happy in this exact moment, even though he has boxes of childhood books in the back of his car and no plan and no job, and Dean has scars and flashbacks and neither of them really know what they’re doing. He’s spent half the afternoon having a staring competition with his father’s grave, but _this_ part of everything makes sense. 

“Does this mean I can drive your car?” Castiel says, closing a hand over the keys in his pocket and feeling the cool edge of the mini-impala against his fingers. 

“No fucking way,” Dean smiles, and then he kisses him.


	7. The internet, Philadelphia, the past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yoooo. I mean I feel like this sort of goes without saying at this point, but the subject form hereon in is pretty heavy (like the last few chapters have been light and fluffy, hah). Anyway, you have been waarrneedd.

Texting Gabriel at midnight about the Beach House is an excellent way to ensure that he does not sleep.

Apparently, Gabriel has become convinced that Michael is attempting to buy nearby property and Castiel really wants to care about this, but he is very, very tired of caring about his infuriating family and their drama and he is yet to summon up the energy. He’s _glad_ that Gabriel has stopped attempting to shield him from the family drama to protect him like he is a fragile creature, even if he is less pleased that this has given way to Gabriel trying to _include_ him in instead. He _does_ care about the Beach House, in theory. It’s the nearest thing to home he’s ever had if you discount the Milton House, which has elected to in recent weeks, and the idea of Michael attempting to monetise the only good memories they have of their father _is upsetting_ , but right now Castiel is tired and he does not want to care about anything. 

He’s alone in his apartment and he does not want to care about this.

_Next time I see him, I’m gonna punch him in the face_. Gabriel texts again, apparently taking Castiel’s lack of answer as an invitation to keep talking. Castiel rolls his eyes and takes another sip of his scotch, brow furrowing as he texts back. 

_I assure you Gabriel, it would not be worth the prison time._

_Pfft. Assault in the third degree rarely carries jail time_ Gabriel returns, all too quickly. 

_Michael is an excellent lawyer._ Castiel returns. He’s spent the better part of the last hour digging through his accounts for something to do because he didn’t feel like sleep yet, so he is currently very aware of Micheal’s legal proficiency. If he hadn’t had to approach him mid-divorce to ask for his help, he’d be in a much worse position than he is now. His _pride_ has never recovered from it, but it certainly gave him a new perspective of how formidable Michael could be and ---

He’s only thinking about this because he’s _mid-argument_ with Dean and he has a tendency to get melancholy and reflective when they’re in the middle of a fight, but it still has the ability to get it’s hooks in him and make him ache. He _does not care_ about Michael trying to bulldoze in and turn the Beach House into a corporate resort , or about his damnable marriage, or about having to ask Michael for help to minimise the damage to his life. Except, of course, he _does care_ , because he’s always cared about all of it.

_Second degree assault is still less than seven years. Worth it._ Gabriel texts back, and something about the words reverberates around his head. It takes a moment for him to root the hollow ringing into anything real, because --- Castiel knows the maximum jail term for second degree assault in New York is seven years. He worked as a lawyer in New York for years, even if he was much more likely to deal with corporate law than criminal convictions, but ---

Dean. 

According to his rough estimations of timelines, Alastair was convicted of some kind of assault around five years ago. He didn’t ask any further, partially because Dean gave no indication that he knew anything further about it. He made it very clear that he checked out of the legal side of things and dissolved that responsibility to Sam, which is both reasonable and understandable, but Castiel didn’t ask. Despite being a Harvard-educated lawyer, it had not even occurred to him to question Dean’s statement that he was ‘safe’, or to ask _what kind_ of assault charge, or even where the assault trial was tried (Dean had said that Sam was ‘nearby’ at college when he had a call from the hospital, so he had assumed that Dean was somewhere near New York, but Dean’s definition of ‘nearby’ has always been skewed by him spending much of his childhood on the road). 

Castiel trusts Dean’s judgement.... But Dean deferred that judgement to his brother. And… it’s not that Castiel _doesn’t trust_ Sam, because he’s sure that Sam is an excellent lawyer from the conversations they’ve had about his work and who Sam is as a person, but… Sam was still a student at the time and Castiel is just arrogant enough to trust his own judgement more at one in the morning and, suddenly, he wants to know.

Dean mentioned ‘other charges’ and ‘pretty sketchy stuff.’ 

He’s aware that Alastair was involved in illegal money lending and there was the barest suggestion of handling stolen goods in one of the other brief, short comments Dean made about that time, but if neither of those charges stuck and, for whatever reason, the prosecutor presiding over the case was insane enough not to classify Dean’s scarring as _‘serious bodily injury’_ , Alastair could be nearing the end of the his prison sentence. 

_Seven years maximum sentence for second degree assault._

And --- 

He’s experienced enough in legal research that it doesn't take very long for him to find the record of the original trial, or Alastair’s full name, or the fact that the case was tried in Philadelphia. There’s a sensationalised local news outlet that covered some particularly grisly details that turn Castiel’s stomach over because they are talking about _Dean._ Obviously, he is fully aware that it was _serious_ \--- he’s heard Dean’s voice when he talked about, he’s seen him after the nightmares, he’s seen the scars --- but there’s further details about _dislocated shoulder, evidence of mild concussion, broken ribs, sustained evidence of older injuries_ that makes it difficult for Castiel to swallow through the sharp pain at the back of his throat. 

Alastair was charged on several accounts of assault, including two accounts of aggravated assault with a deadly weapon. There is a painful paragraph about a discussion around various types of knives to establish legal precedent for the term ‘deadly’, with a heavy suggestion about parallel chargers about Alastair being an illegal armourer that was struck from the court record as irrelevant, but referenced within the news article. There is very little information about Dean’s relationship with Alastair, although there are some details that Castiel isn’t clear on whether Dean told him or he’d filled in the blanks with his own assumptions — _found unconscious in an unlocked motel room, with no phone or wallet, both of which were found in defendant’s possession_ \- meaning that it reads much more like Dean was abducted than sleeping with him. He’s sure that he can read Sam’s influence in that decision and he’s glad for it, because focusing on the assault would definitely be legally less invasive for Dean. 

From the look of it, Dean had to attend very little of the trial. The prosecution submitted photographs of Dean’s injuries that were taken in a hospital, a medical report from his doctors, forensic evidence of several knives found on Alastair's person and in his car that had both his fingerprints and traces of Dean’s blood on and a written victim impact statement that Sam read out in court. Largely, Dean’s in person role was just to identify him in court. There’s an outside possibility that the judge might have opted for a longer sentence if he’d been aware that Dean was having a sexual relationship with Alastair at the time, or it might have opened the case up for increased questioning of Dean’s consent. Given the defence didn’t mention it either, it’s likely that air wasn’t very cooperative with his lawyer, or they might have tried to make an awful, twisted argument based on the rough sex defence that Castiel doesn’t think he would be able to read without throwing his laptop out the window. If they had, it’s very unlikely Dean would have been able to check out so soon. They would have needed to cross-examine him. They would have had to ask Dean endless questions about sex and consent and the indiginity of that, is just ---

If Alastair had been cooperative, he would have plea-bargained. The evidence was damning enough that not plea-bargaining must have been another power play, because no lawyer would have advised him he had a hope of getting out of it. That’s _good_ in that it means he ended up with a stacked sentence of just over twenty years of jail time rather than bargaining away some of the lesser accounts of assault and shortening his sentence --- only the words he cut into his skin could be substantially argued to have been an attempt to cause permanent disfigurement and therefore be considered ‘serious bodily injury’, with the other accounts being focused on the lesser ‘bodily injury’ due to the lack of permanent physical harm --- but it feels insufficient when reading the black and white details of Dean’s pain. 

_Dean_.

And --- it’s jarring to trip over into thinking about _Dean_ in legal terms, when Dean is Castiel’s own private miracle. Dean is the man that bought him the spider plant that’s currently on his kitchen table, because Castiel has been hopelessly carrying it round his apartment and staring at it. Dean is a grown adult that settles debates with his brother by losing at rock, paper scissors. Dean hums Metallica when he’s nervous. He is strong and generous and loyal and he carries with him a confidence and an appetite for _fun_ that Castiel has always envied, but mostly wanted to bask in. 

Dean loves him. Castiel has been carrying around the key to Dean’s apartment like it’s the most precious object in existence for six weeks and _Dean loves him_. 

The motel room was unlocked when Dean was found. Alastair _had his wallet_ but… Dean was alone. He could’ve walked down to the desk, the word _worthless_ bleeding through his shirt and asked for help, but instead he stayed and he drank until either the pain or the alcohol knocked him out. He was found because the cleaner ignored the ‘do not disturb’ sign.

Castiel was upset about Dean not coming to his damnable wedding while Dean was being stripped away from everyone who loved him, so that Alastair could hurt him. So that Alastair could _test the knives in his illegal armoury_ on Dean’s skin, which he readily admitted to in court seemingly just to irritate the judge. Castiel’s petty grievance drove them apart while Dean sustained serious bodily injuries and significant psychological trauma. 

It’s a violation of Castiel’s view of the world for Dean to sustain serious and significant hurts, over and over, and Castiel being powerless to stop it. It doesn’t matter that it happened years ago, he _wants_ and _longs_ to go back and change things more than Dean has ever expressed. 

On the few occasions Castiel has expressed some of these sentiments (they are, in reality, selfish and unproductive, so mostly he tries to process them in evenings like this, when he’s alone in his apartment), Dean has always countered with the things that his trauma has taught him: about how he learnt how loved he is, how it shook away some of the lies he used to believe about himself about how much it forced him into growing up.

Dean is remarkable but --- Castiel has _seen_ the aftershocks of what Alastair did bleed through: the bad nights, the days when Dean is hard and guarded or determined to be _too alive_. He’s seen Dean fix his skin with a steely look in the mirror. He’s seen him withdraw and lash out. He’s seen him unwilling to go to sleep. Dean is _exceptional_ and _this man caused him pain_.

Twenty three years isn’t enough for what he did.

With Alastair's full name, the case about the illegal armoury is easy to find. Disappointingly, it came to nothing due to lack of evidence, although it seems highly likely that it was based in fact. There’s a different public prosecutor on record who appears to be less adept than the one involved in Dean’s trial that allowed it to be called into reasonable doubt. Dean certainly suggested that Sam had pointed them towards some other illegal dealings that led to a conviction, though, so Castiel returns to the research engine to seek more general information about criminal convictions, and --- 

_—-Alastair Rolston, 48, pleads guilty to two accounts of first degree murder —-_

\--- And, it occurs to him that he’s already violated Dean’s privacy by reading any of this. 

He didn’t intend to do that. If he had been thinking more rationally, he would have been aware of that _before_ he started reading, but the concept of Alastair hypothetically being released from prison caused such a visceral reaction that it didn’t occur to him to stop, slow down, and think. 

Castiel is being an awful boyfriend.

He promised himself he _wouldn’t do this_. Recently, Dean has answered every question that Castiel has asked, with varying degrees of gritted teeth or calm acceptance and Castiel promised himself that he would accept that. He is still _careful_ about those questions, half for his own sake and half for Dean’s, but after _that weekend_ he took some time and he forced himself to think about everything and he _promised himself_ that he would not do something like _this_. He decided that he would stop pretending these things never happened unless something bought them up, but that he would not think about Dean like a _victim_. He decided that he wouldn’t take it personally if Dean couldn’t talk about all of it, or if he’d prefer to talk about it with Sam, or a therapist, or anyone else he chose to confide in. He promised himself that he wouldn’t look at Dean’s skin and think about his hurts, or ever think of him in cold, legal terms, or only in relation to things that happened to him. Castiel promised himself he would never make Dean less than the complicated, stubborn, incredible human that he is, even inside Castiel's head; that he would trust his judgement and call him out when he acts like a jerk and love him through all of it. 

Dean may not have wanted him to _know_ about any of this and all Castiel had to do to find that out was _ask him_. If Dean didn’t know or care about the final charges, he might have consented to Castiel looking it up, or asking Sam, but Castiel didn’t give him _the choice_ , and --- he’s always cared about how Dean feels about these things more than the actual bare facts, because that’s the important part. Knowing about _dislocated shoulder, mild concussion, no wallet, Sam reading a victim statement in court_ makes him have more questions, rather than less, but --- 

Alastair has been convicted of murder. 

He clicks on the article with a sense of abject dread, but he has to --- Dean doesn’t even _know_ about this, unless he elected to keep that private on purpose… but, no, Castiel _knows him_. He can tell when Dean is lying or choosing to hide something and Dean was leaking honest vulnerability when he said he didn’t know what happened after the trial; he wouldn’t admit to something he probably irrationally thinks of as ‘weak’ to cover up a truth that he thought would hurt Castiel. Dean doesn’t know about this, he’s very sure about that, and now _Castiel does_ and he can’t take it back, and…. 

And now Castiel knows this much, he needs to find out the rest, just in case it’s not as bad as imagining it to be.

Except, it’s worse. _It’s worse._

The article references an ongoing investigation into Alastair’s finances after the DA’s office was tipped off about illegal money lending and handling stolen goods. He is taking as Sam Winchester, because he doubts that Sam who sat in hospital, alone, with the discovery that some _psychopathic scum_ cut something hateful and horrible into Dean’s skin, could accept twenty three years as justice, because _Castiel can’t_. He told Dean that he didn’t care about Alastair, but the hatred and the rage is curling up his spine and setting into his bones and he has never despised anything as much as this _parasite_ who dared to tell Dean that he wasn’t special and wonderful and loved, who twisted his relationships and took him away and _hurt him_ , repeatedly, over and over.

_Alastair had his wallet and his phone and he left Dean in an unlocked, unguarded room because he was that confident that Dean wouldn’t just get up and leave_.

And ---

They seized his assets and searched several properties known to belong to Alastair in Maryland and, after someone putting two and two together about an individual being reported missing last seen in the vicinity and the vague unease of someone on the investigation, they looked under the patio. 

_Two bodies._

There are pictures of the two men.

God, the _pictures_.

They’re both in their early twenties, these men that became _bodies_. Younger than Dean. And --- Castiel feels like someone is vacuuming his soul out of his body, with his grip tightening on his empty glass and the whole world shrinking into this single moment--- _Jason Bryers, 23_ looks like Dean. He has the same jawline, same green eyes, same smile. His hair is darker, but there’s a familiar boy-ish, charming curve to his smile that shatters his fucking heart and shocks him into action, has him frantically scrolling through more of the article, to see, to know, if --

_Bryers was reported missing three years ago by his sister, who lived in California and was concerned after Bryers hadn’t contacted her for over two weeks. At the time, Hilary Bryers expressed concerns over Bryer’s new boyfriend, who she described as ‘bad news’._

And ---

_\--- Dylan Farrar, who also identified as gay ---_

_\--- Although there is no evidence of sexual assault, the prosection aludes to Alastair having sexual relationship with both victims who -_

_\--- evidence of sustained injuries on both men before their deaths, comatible with previous convictions --_

These men became _bodies_.

Castiel blinks and slams his laptop shut, trying to breathe through the unwanted image of Sam calling him and telling him that Dean is dead, murdered, bloodied under some vermin’s patio. _It did not happen_ , but it feels real enough to be a memory. Years after Castiel had spoken to him or seen him, with his marriage and life dissolving around him alone in this apartment, and Sam on the other end of the phone. _’Cas. He’s gone’_. Sam would have called him, regardless of their fight, because he’d have known that it would have broken Castiel’s heart. He would have known that Castiel needed to know. 

Jason Bryers was loved. He had a sister who worried about him from the other side of America. He was loved and _he went missing_ and they didn’t find him for three years.

Dean was ‘ _on the road_ ’ with Alastair for a year. He was missing, even if Castiel didn’t _know that_ , with no phone, no money, with a man who had a twenty three year old who _looked like Dean_ rotting under his patio. A body. _Murder._

It’s not hatred that’s suffocating him anymore, but fear. Acrid and sharp.

His head reruns the scene where he finds out that Dean is dead. Castiel is at the office in New York. Sam calls and he drops his coffee all over the files on his desk that he does not care about, feeling for all the world that someone has plunged a blunt knife into his gut. He can _feel_ the ghost of the pain that the cloying threat of tears at the back of his throat and --- In the next re-run, Sam is too cut up with grief to call himself, so he gets Bobby to do it. He knows the second he hears Bobby’s voice, this nauseating, sickly dread as Bobby says the actual words out loud, as he tells him that Dean is _a body_ now. His lungs turn to lead and he is too broken to cry, because there’s nothing left inside him. Sam sits in Bobby’s front room throughout the phone call, crying silently into his hands. Castiel doesn’t say anything, as Bobby gruffly explains what happened. He doesn’t have any words. He doesn’t have _anything inside him at all_ and Bobby calls Castiel ‘son’ as he says goodbye.

Except, Dean is safe. Dean is okay. Dean is asleep in his apartment, if the passive aggressive text he sent to Castiel a few hours ago about going to bed was truthful, and none of it happened. It might have, but it did not. The universe conspired _to save Dean_ and to save Castiel from the kind of hurt that he would never recover for him. He was found. He was brought home. He was bought justice. 

Dean ---- It could have happened to Dean (Castiel’s head is screaming _evidence of sustained injuries compatible with previous convictions_ , but he can’t focus on that, can’t think about it), but it _didn’t_ and ---- Dean doesn’t know.

Sam must know. Sam was _actually there_ for the initial trial and tipped them off about the rest of it, so he must have followed the case. He must _know_ how possible it was that he’d get a phone call from the police, rather than then hospital, and Castiel cannot imagine how he has lived with that, but --- but he is also entirely sure that Dean does not know this and that it would not be helpful for Dean to know about it.

Castiel was determined to never make decisions about what Dean could or couldn’t handle for him, but this is different.

Dean is incredible. Castiel wouldn’t have thought it was possible for someone who’d been through so much to get endearingly passionate about a board game tournament that he’s been losing for eighteen months. He wouldn’t have thought it possible that you could rebuild your whole life into something better, full of _love_ and chosen family and understanding after everything was taken away from you. Dean _has his baggage_ , yes, but has an enviable life. He likes his job and his apartment and he loves his family and his friends and _Castiel_. He is unendingly strong and solid and Castiel is sure that he _could_ handle this, if he found out, but he is also sure that it would be difficult and unsettling and _Dean doesn’t need to know_.

He feels safe.

Castiel never wants to be responsible for contradicting that. 

Carefully, he opens his laptop again, exits the page and clears his search history. It feels duplicitous, particularly not telling Dean that he read the information about the trial ---Dean _asked him_ to be honest with him and never intended to break that promise--- but he doesn’t want Dean to look it up himself and stumble across the same thing. He would rather _tell Dean_ than have him find that out via google, but he can’t see Dean seeking that out unless he knows that Castiel has read it and wants to check what was written. Dean is steadfastly _un-curious_ about Alastair’s fate, because that is the method he has chosen to handle it. Castiel is not going to disrupt that, even though it means hiding this from him. He can’t. He won’t. He won’t. 

Dean _does not_ need to know.

He wishes he didn’t know himself because he _doesn’t want to know_ and because Jason Bryer’s ‘missing persons’ photo is seared into retina, but he can’t take it back, he can’t undo it, which is why he should never have looked in the first place.

He will do better. He was determined to be _good at this_ \--- to be good at being there for Dean --- but, tonight is not his finest hour, and he is still shaken and upset.

He _will_ be a better boyfriend. He will be patient and understanding and take Dean’s cues. He will treat him as a whole human being rather than reducing him to his hurts. When he thinks of Dean, he will think of those crooked smiles, his ongoing narration when they watch television, his obsessions with Doctor Sexy and cowboys and his laughter.

\--- _This time, Sam doesn’t call him at all, and his father tells him on his deathbed. Instead of his father telling him to get in contact with Dean, that Dean loves him, his father tells him that Dean has been in a grave for years._ \-- 

Castiel turns his laptop off and drains the last of the whisky he poured himself when Gabriel started texting him about the Beach House, as if any of it matters in comparison to any of this.

He would have found out that Dean was bisexual at his funeral, or by reading the about it in the court case. Dean would never have told him he loved him and Castiel would never have got to say it, either. That spin-the-bottle kiss would be all he ever had. Those summers in the Beach House would slowly fade away into painful nostalgia. He doesn’t think he would have been able to go back, at all. He couldn't stand to see that deckchair, with that groove Dean started cutting into the wood as if he was going to carve something there, that Castiel never asked about. It would have gutted him. 

He can barely breathe thinking about it.

But ---- Dean is safe, well, asleep.

Calling him is unreasonable, but his phone is already in his hand and he’s already dialing. He needs to see Dean, now. He needs to be able to be within touching distance. He needs to convince himself that his worst nightmare never happened, not to its fulfillment, and Dean is happy and healthy, even if his happiness has edges and shadows. He needs to hold him. He needs to be surrounded by that familiar engine-oil-and-leather scent that reminds him so much of being home. He needs to tell Dean that he’s in love with him and he intends to love him for the rest of their long lives. He needs to _see him_ to get that image of Jason Bryers out of his head and to stop thinking about _bodies, bodies, bodies_.

Dean doesn’t answer the call until it’s nearly rang out, which is understandable given it’s one AM and he is fully aware that Dean went to bed hours ago, because Dean text him a “ _Fucking fine, Cas. Keep ignoring me if you wanna be a baby. I’m going to bed_ ’ just after ten. Castiel took him up on his invitation to _keep ignoring him_ because they are currently in the middle of a fight that feels, very, very unimportant right now.

“Cas?” Dean croaks, sleep-muffled and perfect enough that something in Castiel’s stomach settles. Dean _is okay_. He is likely to be irritated about Castiel waking him in the middle of the night in the middle of an argument, but he is fine. “Wh--- what’s happening?”

“Can I come over?”

“Uh, now?”

“Yes,” Castiel breathes, “I --- I need to see you.”

“I --- alright,” Dean says, because he is a wonderful man, “But m’ going back to sleep, so whatever me you see is gonna be un-fucking-conscious.”

“Reasonable,” Castiel says, “I will try not to wake you up.”

“Little late in the game, Cas,” Dean mutters back. There was an edge of panic in his voice before (which is understandable if regrettable consequence of calling him in the middle of the night), but now that’s given away to sleepy mumbling. 

“Sorry.”

“Whatever,” Dean says. “In a bit, Cas. M’going back to sleep.”

“Sleep well,” Castiel says, standing up to grab his car keys and his coat. He takes a moment to _breath_ and to decide whether he’s fit to drive, but the dizzying, creeping paralysis of thinking about _Dean dead_ has lessened now that he’s heard Dean’s voice. He’s a little more sane as he pulls his coat on and forces himself to send some inane message to Gabriel about the Beach House (because if he ignores him it will end in worry and harassment). He’s not _all the way there_ , given he’s decided to drive the hour to Dean’s apartment in the middle of the night, but given that he has discovered that Dean’s ex murdered two of his previous partners he does not think he is being unreasonable. He doesn’t like making decisions driven by emotion because he is very bad at it, but _right now_ isn’t the time to hold it against himself.

He needs to be _near Dean_.

Castiel drives with the radio turned out very loud to stop himself from thinking. Dean’s the last person who set it, although he can’t remember when --- Dean hates his car and generally avoids it like the plague -- but he’s certain that he didn’t set it to classic rock. It helps, a little, to push some of the thoughts out of his head.

He _does_ need to think about this, but if he turns up at Dean’s apartment at two in the morning looking like he’s about to cry or throw up Dean will probably have questions and _he doesn’t want Dean to know_. If he was logical or better at dealing with his emotions he would have stayed at home rather than taking the risk, but if he shuts his eyes without Dean _right there_ he’ll be haunted by Jason Bryer’s green eyes. 

_That poor twenty three year old kid_.

His attempt to let himself in and climb into bed without waking Dean doesn’t go very well. He’s still attempting to gather some composure and instead half-trips over the door frame, scattering the light of his phone into Dean’s bedroom. Dean makes a noise of complaint at the back of his throat, pulls a pillow over his head and turns on the light by his bed. He makes a hmm of acknowledgement after Castiel has stripped down into his boxers and climbed into bed, then turns the light resolute _back off_. Castiel feels rather than see’s him remove the pillow from his face and burrow back under the covers.

“Hey.” Dean mutters.

“Hello, Dean.” Castiel returns. His voice is much steadier than he feels, which is good, and the relief is beginning to permeate through his skin now. Dean is _right there_ and now Castiel’s become accustomed to the dark, he can see the way he’s sprawled out over the covers, half asleep.

“Y’okay?” Dean asks him with his eyes shut. Dean is beautiful. He’s always been attractive and charismatic, but these days he’s devastating. With the covers half twisted round his legs and a tiny crease of unhappiness about being woken up creased into his forehead, Dean is gorgeous and lovely. 

“Yes.”

“Okaaay,” Dean exhales, rolling over onto his side. “Night.”

“Dean,” Castiel says, after a few long moments of being ramrod still on the other side of the bed, acclimatising himself. 

Dean makes a muffled noise of acknowledgment.

“Can I hold you?”

Dean answers by twisting into Castiel’s space and threading their hands together so that he can arrange Castiel’s arms wrapped around his waist, settling with Castiel’s chest as a pseudo-pillow and, _god_ that’s better, with the warmth of Dean’s skin bleeding through, with the steady rhythm of Dean’s breathing. 

_Dean is warm and breathing; alive, well, holding his hand_.

“Okay?”

“Yes,” Castiel says, because that feels more appropriate than trying to express how perfect and essential it is to have this right now. It’s more than _okay_ , but Castiel can tell him about the distinct pleasure of having Dean forget about his complex about ‘being a man’ and tucking himself under Castiel’s arm another time. _One day_ , he will tell Dean how _complete_ it makes him feel to have the weight of Dean pressed against his side and his face buried in the hollow of his neck, but he’s already woken him up twice and he doesn’t think that Dean’s patience will stretch to listening to Castiel wax poetics about how much he loves him. 

There is something pleasing and satisfying about Dean giving in without asking. About Castiel _asking_ and Dean not even taking a moment to think about it before he acquiesced and lets Castiel hide his face in Dean’s hair in the dark and try to pretend that he’s just happy about _this_ moment rather than thinking about anything else. 

He’s never been clear if he believes in a higher power, but as Dean falls back to sleep Castiel lies awake in the dark and thanks God with every rise and fall of his chest that Dean got out. After God, he thanks the motel cleaner who found him and called the ambulance; the doctors who patched him up; for the prosecutors who secured a conviction and the judge who sentenced him; for Sam Winchester, for helping to rebuild him; for Bobby and the therapists; for his father for telling him, with that all knowing look, that he should _go to him_.

And he thanks Dean, desperately, over and over, for not giving up and fighting his way back to life.

*

He wakes up alone, but the bed is warm enough that this is probably a recent development and he can vaguely hear Dean in the kitchen, which means that Dean hasn’t gone to work yet. And… they should probably have an actual conversation, given that they’re supposed to be arguing about something that Castiel no longer cares about, before he showed up at Dean’s apartment at two in the morning after _Alastair_. 

“Hey.” Dean says, looking up from the still-running coffee pot when Castiel walks into the kitchen with a slight frown playing at his lips. “You okay?”

“Yes,” Castiel says, more sure than he feels, “Can I kiss you?”

“You’re pretty damn polite, lately,” Dean says, arching an eyebrow in his direction. And —- yes, normally when he hasn’t just spent a lengthy period digesting the ways Dean was violated and hurt, he is a lot less likely to ask permission. The fact that Dean has picked up on it inideal. It also reads very much like a _you don’t have to ask_ , so Castiel takes that as an invitation to step forward and kiss him until the coffee is ready. 

“For the record, I am _always_ down for you kissing me like that.” Dean says, as he pulls back to get two mugs out of the cupboard. 

“Are we still in a fight?”

“No,” Dean says, gruff enough that it’s not very believable. 

“Right,” Castiel says, sitting down heavily and accepting his offering of coffee. He would like more sleep before pretending he still cares about their inane fight or acknowledging it whatsoever, but he will settle for coffee and Dean eyeing him over the kitchen table because it is actually his fault. “Can we be done now?" 

“You tell me, Cas.” Dean says, “You’re the one whose been ignoring me.”

“That’s — inaccurate.”

“Really,” Dean says, pulling out his phone and fixing him with that look. “Yesterday, seven fifty seven, message sent to Castiel. _You coming over tonight to talk?_ No response. Ten thirty two, message sent to Castiel. _Cas, two question marks._ ”

“Allright,” Castiel says.

“Message twelve thirty, sent to Cas. _Just tell me if you’re okay you dick._ Got a response to this one, two freaking hours later, saying _I’m fine_ , full stop.” 

“Is this necessary?” Castiel asks, sipping his coffee, “You’ve made your point.”

“We’re just getting to the good part,” Dean says, “Message three fifteen, sent to Cas. _Okay. Come over tonight. I’m making burgers_ and, yep, no reply. Five pm, no reply. Seven pm, no reply. Ten pm and, any guesses, _no damn reply._ ”

It all seems much worse stacked up like that.

“I was going through my financial accounts.”

“All damn day?”

“No, they called me into the soup kitchen.”

“That actually makes it worse,” Dean says, “Given it’s _an hour and a half_ drive from your places and twenty minutes from me.” 

“I wasn’t _looking_ at my phone.”

“Grow up Cas,” Dean says, blunt and hard. It’s an interesting experience being told to grow up by a man who settled a debate about who was doing the washing up with a thumb war last week and still not really feeling like he could refute the statement, because Castiel has been acting like a child. He _was_ ignoring him, even though it wasn’t actually about Dean: he wanted to ignore everything, Dean just happened to fall into that category. 

After everything else, his behaviour _does_ feel immature and ridiculous. He does need to _grow up_.

Dean sits down heavily and looks at him.

“You _know_ ignoring your phone makes me crazy,” Dean says, voice lower and even with that argumentative edge removed and… yes, Castiel does know this. He didn’t really mean to do it in the first place, it just happened. He was _distracted_ by thinking about his father’s damnable books and _their argument_ and their _last_ big argument before all of this, and that spiralled into thinking about _every mistake he’s ever made_ and then Gabriel started talking about Michael and the Beach House, until he was in a bad enough headspace that _googling Alastair_ seemed like a good idea. He is fully aware that _not answering_ his phone makes Dean crazy. He’d been trying to be better at that, because it’s not _unreasonable_ for Dean to want more from him, it’s just that Castiel is very used to no one caring.

Or, that’s how it felt. Gabriel and Meg and Anna and others probably found his propensity to go silent irritating too, but Dean is much more insistent about it.

He's been alone for long enough for lonliness to feel habitual. 

“Anyway, I’m not arguing with you right now,” Dean continues, for all the world like Castiel _hadn’t_ just asked if they could drop all of it, before Dean started reading out Castiel's text messages. “I’m taking you out for breakfast, so get dressed.”

“You have work.” Castiel says, tilting his head. 

“Yup,” Dean says, “Bobby said he can live without me for a couple of hours. So. Breakfast. Coming?”

“I’m not hungry,” Castiel says, although he doesn’t really know _why_. He doesn’t really want to talk about their argument or any of the last three days, but he drove here in the middle of the night because he wanted to be _near Dean_ ; this instinctively pushing him away is irritating to Castiel, too. 

It _was_ a bad argument.

It was also entirely Castiel’s fault. 

He was upset about hitting an emotional brick wall with his father’s stupid books and his misguided attempts to gain some _insight_ or approval from Chuck, when all it did was make him irritatble and sad. He’d been staring at his laptop for days thinking about what a colossal waste of time the whole thing had been and Dean had suggested he _’take a break’_ and somehow that had resulted in Castiel snapping at him and then it _degraded_ until one of their old arguments about things that don’t matter anymore, now that they are in a relationship and have said all the things they used to lock inside their chests and sit on, and Castiel accused Dean of _always telling him what to do_ and Dean had said _’oh believe me sunshine, I learnt my goddamn lesson about that’_ and --- _'what’s that supposed to mean'_ \--- and Dean had been all hard edges and closed off, in that way that’s always made Castiel want to shake him until the real truths came out and -- _'the only damn time I ever told you what to do you threw it in my fucking face and didn’t talk to me for seven years'_ and Castiel had a sudden, strong memory of his fucking awful Bachelor party.

He hadn’t _wanted_ one anyway, but Dean had insisted on it. Dean had been begrudging and irritable about the whole wedding, with this horrible look on his face when he agreed to be his best man that Castiel hadn’t understood at the time. He said _’okay, Cas’_ with no smile and no congratulations or acknowledgement to the rest of his update, but months later he’d said that they _had_ to have one because it was tradition. And Castiel _missed him_ and he wanted Dean to _want_ to be involved in his life, after this growing, gaping distance. They’d been slipping further apart for years, but it had become more jarring and abrupt around then, like Dean was trying to cut him out altogether (and now he knows that was _Alastair_ but at the time it just felt like he’d fallen short of one of Dean’s secret standards and Castiel was being punished for some unknown wrongdoing), so he’d agreed to the damn thing and then Dean was _there_ and there was alcohol and everything almost felt like normal, and Castiel finally told him about the _lawsuit_ and the _money_ and everything went to hell.

It wasn’t a very pretty argument anyway, because they’re both hot-headed and store up hurts and they’d both drank too much, but then Dean had looked at him, intent and serious with his hands on Castiel’s shoulders and he dropped the anger and the barbed words said _’I'm not gonna logic you, okay? I'm saying don't...Just 'cause. I'm asking you not to. That's it’_ and --- 

\--- the reminder of Dean’s cosmic ability to _rip his heart out_ was not very pleasant.

He _knows_ that didn’t justify the three days spent ruminating in his apartment. He was fully aware _at the time_ that he was being childish and stupid, that none of it really _mattered_ anymore, but then he started thinking about the other things that they said to each other, about Crowley, about the lawsuits and the money and he stayed in his empty apartment and he didn’t answer his phone.

It’s just --- _Jason Bryers_.

“Cas.” Dean says, jaw squared.

“Can I pay?” Castiel asks, because apparently this destructive desire to _kick up issues_ hasn’t ebated in three days, or on the other side of the revelation that _none of it matters_ in comparison to Dean being alive and healthy and making him coffee.

“Fine,” Dean says with an eye roll, “But we’re leaving in five, buddy, so get your ass in gear.”

On another day, he’d argue about the ‘buddy’, but this morning he probably deserves it.

* 

“It _feels_ like we’re still in a fight,” Castiel says, after he’s ordered breakfast and stared at his coffee for long enough that it’s slightly tepid. 

“Yeah, well, pretty sure you’re supposed to talk about it before you call it quits,” Dean says, pinching the middle of his forehead, elbow resting on the table. He’d been his usual charming self with the waitress and had insisted on ordering Castiel a side of bacon with his french toast, but he still hasn’t really _said_ anything since, which Castiel had assumed was the point of breakfast.

“You have a headache.” Castiel says, tilting his head to consider him.

“Didn’t sleep well.”

“I --- sorry.” 

“Think _that’s_ how you’re supposed to finish fights,” Dean says with a humourless smile, “Not mad at you about coming over. _Glad_ you did, rather than dealing with whatever _that_ was on your own. But —- you didn't have to _ask_. Gave you a key because I want you to _use it_ and I told you I wanted you to come over.”

“So you’re mad at me about something else.”

“Figures you’d focus on that. Not _mad_ ,” Dean says, “I just --- I don’t know how it worked with any of the rest of your relationships, but you don’t get to go radio freaking silent for three days because we had a fight.” 

“Crowley and I had a well established boundary that he would leave me alone when I was being ‘emotional’ because, I quote, _he did not sign up to be my therapist_.” Castiel says, running a thumb around the edge of his cup, only looking up when he feels Dean’s eyes on him.

He didn't really mean to _say_ that either, but apparently his hastily constructed emotional wall around _Alastair's murder charges_ has blocked off his ability to filter appropriately. That, or the fact that he never really got to sleep.

“Well that’s just plain fucking sad,” Dean says, “Although gotta say it explains _a lot_. Forget I don’t have the monopoly on shit relationships.”

Alastair _put two men in the ground_ before he even met Dean Winchester. The word _shit_ has never been such a colossal understatement and --- he’s glad that Dean appears to be more interested in patching things up than arguing with him, even though with Dean sometimes it’s hard to tell, because the two bleed into each other, but he would probably still opt for being _alone_ right now if he had the option. Maybe that’s part of the problem. Maybe that's just another _habit_.

“You definitely have a hotel on Boardwalk and Park Place in the monopoly of shit relationships.”

Dean smiles. A real _amused_ smile that loosens something sharp in Castiel’s chest. He doesn't understand how anyone could want to _hurt_ this man, who is so easily pleased with extra bacon and Castiel's off-colour comments and says that Castiel can come over without asking tin the middle of the night. He doesn't understand how Dean can be sat across from him and smiling when he was once found in an unlocked motel room with the word _worthless_ bleeding out of his skin. He doesn't _understand_ any of it, but the smile still blossoms some easy warmth in his lungs that makes it all feel simpler.

“Not arguing with that,” Dean says, breaking his gaze as the waitress brings their food. “We haven’t actually talked about Crowley.” 

“Your expression every time I mention him makes bringing it up unappealing,” Castiel says, picking up his cutlery even though he isn’t really hungry. He ordered food because he thought Dean would think he was being uncooperative if he didn't, but he genuinely didn't want anything. “I wasn’t ignoring you, I was ignoring _everything_. It wasn’t a strategy designed to upset or frustrate you, I just —— I was upset and I wanted to think, but I am sorry.”

“Just wanted to freaking apologise, Cas, and you wouldn’t hear me out.”

“Apologise,” Castiel repeats, “ _I_ started this argument.”

“No arguments there, either,” Dean says with a soft _no hard feelings_ smile that Castiel really doesn’t deserve, spearing some of his own bacon on to his fork. “Don’t mean about that. I mean --- at the Beach House, I told you I wasn’t gonna apologise for the stuff I said to you that night.”

“Dean,” Castiel says, warily. 

“Was thinking about it, from your perspective,” Dean says, watching him over his breakfast, “That and me screwing up your coming out because --- you weren’t _upset_ because you thought I was being some homophobic dickbag, you were upset because you thought I knew. Or both, I guess,” Dean says, “And then I go and tell you _not_ to get married, like some total fucking asshole. You thought --- you thought I knew you had feelings for me.”

Castiel hadn’t been optimistic enough to assume that he was _over Dean_ , but the gaping wound of his unrequited feelings felt like it had healed, a little. The distance was helpful to squash that insatiable longing, at least, and being physically distant from him had helped, too. He’d _accepted_ his role in Dean’s life as a once-best-friend and he didn’t think his damnable feelings had any capacity to hurt him anymore. He was less jealous and petty when Dean slept around, or dated, and Castiel had been in a serious relationship for long enough that he thought he was _over it enough_.

And then --- and then Dean had looked him in the eye and asked him not to get married and he thought that he _must know_ , because why else would he make that appeal? _Why else_ would he assume that Dean just asking him not to do it would make a difference, if all his spat-out-opinions about Castiel’s decisions hadn’t changed his mind?

_I’m saying don’t… Just ‘cause. I’m asking you not to._

Emotionally, it _wasn’t_ dissimilar to coming out and Dean’s _‘so you into me?_. There was that same feeling of being exposed and vulnerable, like all of his feelings were being projected somewhere public and humiliating, except this time Dean was _purposefully_ reaching into Castiel’s chest and trying to manipulate him. He --- _Dean_ , who’d always been so careful about putting physical space between them, so that Castiel was so, so sure that he was uncomfortable with even the idea that Castiel could have feelings for him --- was reaching out and asking him something so unreasonable, so _unfair_ for no reason at all, that he _couldn’t_ ask unless he knew. It felt like Dean had ripped the scab off his wounded barely-healed heart and poured salt on it. This sudden, angry hurt that bubbled up inside his chest and his gut and his everything —- humiliated and exposed and _upset_ —- and he resisted hitting him only because he thought he would cry if he did it, and he just turned around and walked out, with Dean spitting out that he _’wouldn’t dream of setting foot in a fifty mile radius of your goddamn joke of a wedding’_ to his retreating back. 

He was so, so sure that Dean knew. 

Obviously, he was _wrong_ about that and about everything else. He was _wrong_ to say every spiteful thing that he said to Dean in that fight and every accusation of _homophobia_ and prejudice he made before it. He was wrong to never _call_ Dean to demand why he didn’t come to the wedding. He was wrong to marry Crowley and he was _wrong_ about the lawsuit and about not asking Sam Winchester for Dean’s phone number years ago. 

He was _wrong_ , but he was so sure and _so upset_ and ---

\--- And if Dean hadn’t been found by a motel cleaner, that might have been the last conversation they ever had face to face.

“Cas, I wouldn’t do that to you,” Dean says, voice low and serious; this incredible brave man who's addressing Castiel's old hurts like they're worth stacking up against his own when they are not. Dean carries all his mistakes and pain with dignity and strength and Castiel _runs away_ and hides in his apartment. “I wouldn’t _exploit_ your emotions like that. I wouldn’t take _advantage_ of your feelings for me for anything.”

“I know that.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “Yeah, but I _let you_ believe that for years. I should’ve --- you’re right, man. I know you. I should’ve known, all of it, and you —- you were right, about it being on me to say something. You’d already been brave enough to come out and —- I let you down.”

“It wasn’t _brave_ ,” Castiel says, and…. He doesn’t really want to talk about this, either, but now Dean has opened the can of worms he doesn’t know how to shut it, because Dean has always had this frustrating ability to get Castiel to talk when he wants him too. “I was desperate. I thought I was _broken_ and I wanted someone to tell me I wasn’t and everyone else in the world already thought I’d _come out of the factory wrong_. I thought you were _my person_ and that I’d ruined it because I was _faulty_. It wasn’t brave, Dean. I told you because I was scared.”

“It seemed really fucking brave from where I was sitting,” Dean says, “I didn’t --- I didn’t know, Cas.”

“I _know_ you didn’t know,” Castiel says, “It --- it doesn’t _matter_.”

“Yeah, it matters,” Dean says, “Cas. Anything that causes you pain _does matter_. Knew I’d _upset you_ , but I didn’t --- you’ve never been _faulty_. You’ve never been broken.”

“But I _was_ , Dean, for pinning my entire view of myself on what everyone else thought. For letting your opinion, that I didn’t even _decipher correctly_ , decimate my understanding of myself _for years_. It wasn’t your responsibility to make me feel normal and whole.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s being a teenager, not some freaking character flaw,” Dean says, and something about his confidence teases out some of those hurts. He’s wanted Dean to say these things to him for a long time and... Dean _has_. He knows that Dean has a much higher opinion of Castiel than he does himself, because Dean has said things like _brave_ and _gorgeous_ and _strong_ with enough conviction that he clearly believes it. “And I was your person. I _am_ your damn person. Never crossed my fucking _mind_ that you didn’t know I thought you were the most incredible damn guy I’d ever met, exactly as you are. I was just dumb and scared and I said the _worst fucking thing_ and then --- let you believe I was freaking straight for years to save face.”

_Dean loves him_.

“Your _brother_ told me you dated men.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “Yeah, I’m an asshole.”

“You’re not an _asshole_ ,” Castiel says, “But I don’t understand why you didn’t tell me. You _knew_ I couldn’t have a problem with it.”

“No, I thought you’d have plenty of problems with it, just not that kind of problem.” Dean says, “Thought you’d _see right through me_ and --- I don’t know, Cas. Life was complicated enough without making life harder. Wasn’t gonna _do_ anything about it, anyway, and then --- then I’d left it too long and you’d have questions, _these fucking questions_ , and I didn’t have any good answers --- and by the time I was ready to have a damn conversation with you, we’d drifted, and then there was Alastair and I didn’t want you anywhere goddamn near that, because if he knew I had some rich as hell best friend he’d’ve --- done something awful.”

“He did do something awful.”

“Something awful _to you_ ,” Dean says, “Didn’t have a damn clue you were in love with me, but I sure as shit knew that if Alastair tried to extort you you’d have paid the hell up and _that_ would’ve been an even shitter way to come out to you than having Sammy do it. _Hey, Castiel, the piece of shit loan shark I’m fucking says he’s gonna scar me for life unless you give him ten thousand dollars. By the way, I swing both ways_.”

From Castiel’s perspective, he thinks it would be the best ten thousand dollars anyone had ever spent on anything. The idea that so little could have _saved Dean_ so much pain, is just —- 

“You said it wasn’t ‘that bad’ before my wedding.”

“It wasn’t,” Dean says, “Knew what he was capable of though, was just dumb enough to feel like I had it under control.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“It —- Look, we can talk about that another day,” Dean says, “Because right now I wanna talk about you and the fact that my bullshit baggage hurt you for years and —- I’m sorry. I let you down and it’s okay that you’re pissed at me about it.”

“Dean,” Castiel says, “It _hurt you more_.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not a competition,” Dean says, “That doesn’t make it okay, and hell, Cas didn’t have a right not to task you to marry the guy, anyway. Total dick move, under any fucking circumstances.”

Dean was _with_ Alastair by then, in some inbetween state that Castiel doesn’t understand where Dean was aware enough that he was dangerous to want to keep Castiel out of it, but not in deep enough that he was trapped in a string of motel rooms with no money and no phone and serious bodily injuries. 

Castiel nearly _punched him_. He was so upset. He was so _angry at him_ and Dean was already in danger and hurt, which means Castiel shouldn’t _care_ about any of it. It’s history. It _doesn’t matter_ , because Dean is sitting across from him eating breakfast and everything is fine.

“I would have _given you the right_ , if you’d told me what you meant,” Castiel says, “If you had given me an _inkling_ that you had ever had any feelings for me, at all, then I would have done what you asked.”

“Cas, I can’t play that game. The _what if_ thing fucks with my head and I --- I _can’t_ , okay.” Dean says, voice tight enough that it feels like it’s costing him and… it’s not the first time Dean has shut down a hypothesised ‘what if’ and… it’s not like Castiel _doesn't understand that_ , because he knows it’s not helpful. He can’t _change_ anything. There’s nothing he can _do_ about all of these things that could have happened or might have happened, but he doesn’t know how to _turn them off_. He doesn’t want to play the game, either, not with Alastair, not with his marriage, or if he’d told Dean how he felt, or if Dean had said something.

No one wins.

“But --- I, I am sorry. About all of it. About not saying it before. Never meant to _hurt you_.”

“You didn’t think you had the ability to hurt me,” Castiel counters, because that was the maddening part of all these revelations. It was all so _pointless_. None of it had to happen. If either of them had been honest about _anything_ —- 

_No one wins this game_. 

“There comes a point where crappy self esteem turns into being so damn self-centred on your own bullshit that you don’t see anything else,” Dean says, “And that’s not good enough.”

“I think perhaps we’re both guilty of that,” Castiel says, finally cutting off a square of his french toast and eating it, slowly. It’s good, even if he let it get slightly cold. “I’m sorry. About the argument.” 

“Me too,” Dean says, “Just --- life’s complicated.”

“I don’t want this to be complicated,” Castiel says, “I just want to be in love with you and everything else to be fine.”

Dean smiles again at that and Castiel wishes that they’d gotten a booth, because he’s _too far away_ and he thinks bridging the physical gap would make him feel better. It felt better last night and he thinks it would probably have made him feel better at any point in the last three days, because when he’s _close_ to Dean their history feels unimportant and small in comparison to the feel of Dean’s hand on his knee, or kissing him, or holding his hand.

“Sorry sweetheart, we’re not living in a Disney movie,” Dean says, and Castiel makes a point to nudge their knees together under the table, because Dean is too busy with cutlery to hold his hand and too far away to kiss and he wants to feel closer. “Still think you’re brave as hell.”

“You’re very biased,” Castiel says, as Dean shifts a little closer in his seat, so that more of their legs are touching, with nothing in his expression giving away that he has even noticed that Castiel is half-starting a game of footsie under the table. “You’re in love with me, your opinion can’t be trusted at all.”

“Eat your damn bacon,” Dean says, with one of those almost-smiles.

“Dean,” Castiel says, looking at him with his best fake-serious expression as he takes a forkful of bacon. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

That wins him an eye-crinkling smile and an eye roll and it's probably one of the best prizes he's ever gotten

Overall, breakfast is good.

He feels much lighter after climbing back into the impala, sliding right to the middle of the seat so that he can _finally_ be close enough to press their foreheads together and kiss Dean Winchester, who is frustrating and perfect and _safe_ and has such excellent ideas like breakfast and talking about arguments rather than ignoring them.

“I hate fighting with you,” Castiel says, low and quiet, “I vote that we never do it again.”

“Fine by me,” Dean says, kissing him again, and… _whatever_ Dean said or did the better part of a decade ago is not worth giving up Dean kissing him for three whole days. Castiel is idotic and insane and Dean is wonderful and considerate and has already informed him that they haven't finished this conversation, yet. Castiel hopes that they continue it in bed, with Dean curled around him as he cauterizes old wounds with validation and care. He hopes that he can take the edge off the desire to _run and wallow_ by kissing him. “And next time we don’t fight, you’re not gonna pull a disappearing act.”

“Agreed.”

“Cause, for the record —- I’m not _Crowley_ and I’d much rather have emotional Castiel than an absent Castiel. Every day of the week.”

“You want me every day of the week?”

“Seven out of seven, sweetheart,” Dean says, and that’s much much better than _buddy_. He likes the tone of voice Dean takes with them when they’re alone: all soft and _intimate_ and easy. Breakfast was a good idea, but now he would like _proper_ alone time. “You okay?”

“Better,” Castiel says, “You were right about the extra bacon.”

“Extra bacon is always right,”

“I’m sorry,”

“Yeah, me too,” Dean says, tangling their hands together and smiling at him, “You better be staying over tonight.”

“Yes,” Castiel says, “I have a three day absence debt I need to pay back.”

“Awesome,” Dean says, “Should —- should probably get to work.”

“Bobby doesn’t usually allow you late starts.”

“Apparently, I’ve been a pain in the ass,” Dean says and they seem to be in a good enough place that Dean is casually mocking himself, which is good. “ _Fed up of your damn bellyaching, boy, you deal with your crap or you do us all a favour and stay at home, y’ idjit’_. And he set Sam on me, whining at me to apologise.”

“Did you tell them it was my fault?”

“None of their damn business,” Dean says, “Anyway, didn’t exactly come out of that conversation smelling of roses. Not keeping a fucking tally of who starts an argument.” 

“Hmm. You really _aren’t_ Crowley.” 

“Awh, Cas.”

“That wasn’t meant to elicit sympathy” 

“We’re a couple of dumbasses,” Dean says, “ We got _one_ functional relationship in our combined relationship history?”

Castiel tilts his head slightly to consider this.

“I —- I can’t think of any.” 

“Then this is going pretty well,” Dean says, resting a hand on his knee. “Pretty damn functional.” 

“Very well,” Castiel agrees, kissing him again and then, “Dean,” Castiel says, because he kept thinking about it last night, listening to Dean breathing in and out and thinking about all the things he might never have known. This frustrating twisting mass of _what ifs_ and curdling fear. “The deckchair at the Beach House. What were you going to carve into the wood?”

Dean is safe and they are okay, which means he gets to keep finding out these things. Asking and learning. Apologising to each other. Smoothing over the edges of every old hurt.

“Huh,” Dean says, a soft smile breaking out onto his face, “Our initials. I wanted —- wanted something about us to be permanent.”

“We,” Castiel begins, “We _are_ permanent.”

“Oh yeah,” Dean says, dropping a kiss on the corner of his mouth before turning over the car engine. “You ain’t getting rid of me any time soon, sunshine.”

*

After Dean’s dropped him back off at Dean’s apartment, Castiel cancels all the volunteer commitments he’d made today because _he needs some time_ and he runs himself a bath.

He never actually finished the article last night, before the panic and emotion cut off any desire to read the rest of it --- about _where_ Alastair is, what happened to him --- but, he needs to do this.

It’s not going to be _pleasant_ , but it is necessary. 

Castiel reads every last word of the article in the bath, then he dries himself off, wraps himself in Dean’s dressing gown and cries. 

He cries because a twenty three year old who looks like Dean is dead and never got to fall in love and talk about permanence and he cries because Dean was _hurt so much_ and he’s never cried about that before. He pulls the cocoon of Dean-warmth that is his dressing gown closer around his shoulders and he cries because _psychological warfare_ and the twisted white lines of scar that spell out ‘worthless’ and because he is so sure that Dean was still sleeping with him and thinking about that makes him want to tear the world down. He cries because Dean didn’t leave out of that unlocked motel door and because Dean agreed to go in the first place and because Dean believed that people wouldn’t care and he cries because if _Castiel had done something different_ then maybe it might not have happened and he can’t change anything about that. 

They’re the kind of tears that dislodge more hurts and more regrets in his chest, until they’re spilling everywhere: not fixing Dean with a look and saying _yes_ in response to ‘you into me?’; every time he closed himself off and snapped at him rather than explained what he was thinking; going so far away for college; never just fucking _kissing him_ and never managing to convince Dean that he was worth _everything_. 

He cries because their relationship is not simple and sometimes he still feels out of his depths wandering around the edges of Dean’s boundaries without a map and because it is a travesty that Alastair still has any power at all to take away any more of Dean’s happiness and maybe it _wouldn't be_ if Castiel was better at this, and he cries because it could have been so, so much worse.

And then he puts his _what ifs_ in a box, clears his browser history on his phone and answers Dean’s text messages about what he wants to eat for dinner. 


	8. Dinner, Babysitting, Baby

“You don’t actually have to be here,” Sam says, pointedly spearing some of his disappointing-sounding grilled chicken onto his fork and assessing him over the table.

“What?”

“Dean,” Sam bitchfaces, “You haven’t listened to a single word I’ve said.”

“Sure I have,” Dean counters, “Lawyer-y bullshit, nerdy things, no sex life, blah blah blah. I got it, Sam.” Sam sends him that _look_ and Dean exhales and stops picking at his burger, because Sam doesn’t deserve Dean taking out his crappy mood on him. “Sorry. Lot on my mind.”

“Cas.”

“Right.” Dean says, like that encapsulates any of the complexity of the thing, because the _Cas dilemma_ is a fucking doozie. Mostly he’s just worried, but the target of that worry is a little unclear. This newfound revelation that Cas has _literally_ never forgiven himself for anything, ever is pretty damn concerning (although, yeah, that’s been a growing realisation rather than the sucker-punch than how fucking depressing the Castiel-Crowley marriage was because, Jesus), but the fact that his default coping mechanism is hiding is a whole other problem. That’s the kind of thing that sends his head down a whole other rabbit hole of _relationship worry_ that Dean’s never actually experienced before, because he never gave a damn about any of his past relationships, if he even had anything that was functional and defined enough to count as an actual relationship. With _Cas_ he cares about fucking everything. He starts getting in his head about whether things are _too fast_ or _too slow_ and if they’re too broken and if he’s going about all of this wrong and _then_ he thinks about that crease in Castiel’s forehead before that stupid fight and it feels like his chest has caved in.

“I get it, you know,” Sam says, “And you could’ve cancelled if you wanted to hang out with the guy after your domestic.” 

“He made me come,” Dean concedes, picking up another french fry even though he’s not really hungry which is weird, because he’s _never_ not really hungry. This week was just a lot. He’s never _wanted_ to cancel on his damn brother before, but all he felt like doing tonight was staying at home where he could keep his eyes on his damn boyfriend. 

But ---- he _also_ doesn’t want to be that guy. The clingy one. Or the one who cancels on his brother, after every single damn thing that Sam has done for him when Cas was telling him he should go. He’s not a hundred percent sure that being the guy who ignores his brother over dinner is much better, but that’s where they’re at right now. He’s trying.

“He _made_ you come have dinner with me,” Sam repeats, raising an eyebrow in a way that says a lot more than any dry comment would. “What’s he doing tonight, anyway?”

“Well, if how I left him is anything to go by, watching a scary amount of _storage wars_ on my damn sofa.” 

“He kicked you out of your own apartment.”

“You don’t have to look so amused by it,” Dean says icilly.

“Serious question,” Sam says, setting down his cutlery, “Why doesn’t he just move in already? I know the guy isn’t exactly broke, but he’s still unemployed and he barely goes home. Feels like an expensive ass way to avoid making a commitment you both made mentally about twenty years ago.”

Dean eats another french fry and weighs up his words. 

After years of Sam having and all access pass to the inside of Dean’s brain, they’re still feeling out new boundaries with the Cas stuff. Sam has _not_ asked a lot of questions that Dean’s pretty sure he wants to ask in a nod to Dean actually having a private life, but —- there’s a balance. 

Dean knows this is a big deal, though. The kind of thing they might have discussed even if none of the Alastair stuff went down, if they just had a regular old brother relationship.

“Was gonna ask him this week.”

“And?”

“And now I can’t,” Dean says, heavily. “Cause it’ll seem like I’m just trying to stop him bailing next time we have a fight. Like this is just some strategy so he doesn’t have somewhere else to go.”

“What were you even arguing about?”

“Sam,”

“Fine,” Sam says with an eye roll.

“Just —- old stuff. The past.”

“What about the past?”

“When I was twelve I broke his action man,” Dean says, “What do you think, Sammy? Whatever. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Clearly,” Sam says, “So how long are you going to wait?”

“Don’t know,” Dean says, “Until we have another fight and he _doesn’t_ run away for a week.”

“Well great,” Sam says, “Go home, start an argument, see how it goes down.”

“Fuck you.”

“Are you _okay_?” Sam says, “Because you look like crap.”

“I -- yeah,” Dean says, pushing away his plate and exhaling, “Yeah. Just tired. Need to catch up on sleep, but I’m fine. Me and Cas will be fine. Just some bullcrap we gotta work through.” 

“Yeah,” Sam frowns, “I wasn’t really doubting that you and Cas will be fine.”

“Really?”

“Uh yes, really,” Sam says, “I was there when you were playing footsie at the Beach House, I’ve seen you make heart eyes at each other every Sunday and I remember like two months ago when you were all _get used to me being freakishly happy, Sam_. Now I’m thinking _you_ think you’re not going to be fine and --- Dean. This is _Cas_.”

“It’s not that simple.” 

“It is, Dean.”

“Because _you’re_ the authority on relationships,” Dean spits out, which he’s pretty sure pushes him over the boundary of being a bit of a dick to be a totally goddamn asshole, it’s just an easier default than peeling out the _’but what if he can’t handle it and he leaves’_ thought that he couldn’t stop thinking about for most of the week. 

It hadn’t really occurred to him before. Yeah, he offered it up as an option because _he had to_ \--- Dean doesn’t want to be that asshat that assumes someone’s gonna stick around to deal with his bullshit --- but it didn’t really cross his mind that Cas might actually head for the exit. But---

_Three days_ over some dumb fight.

“Fine, dropping it.” Sam says, icily.

“ _Sam_ ,” Dean says, rubbing the back of neck. “We --- it was about that shitty fight we had at his bachelors party and a lot of dumb stuff I said in the heat of the moment, but it’s the _hibernation_ act that just got under my skin, but that’s… not an excuse to act like a jerk.”

Some of the _fight_ drops out of Sam's shoulders at that. “Look, I know you guys have been through a lot,” Sam says, “I didn’t mean that it wasn’t… complicated, but I don’t think Cas is going anywhere anytime soon. He’s wanted this _forever_.”

“Exactly,” Dean says, “What if the reality check is a massive damn disappointment.”

“Dean,” Sam says, his expression twisting into something a little more sympathetic and soft. “You’re not a disappointment. To _anyone_ and especially not to _Castiel_. I’ve seen him go all goey eyed over watching you eat a burger and, I’ve gotta tell you Dean, that’s not pretty.” 

“I’m adorable.”

“No, you’re gross,” Sam says, with all the conviction of a younger brother, “But _Cas_ thinks you’re adorable. It’s just Cas, you know? He takes a while to process he’s even having an emotion, until he’s in full _impassioned feeling_ mode and then he mellows out again. This is still new.”

“Make your damn mind up,” Dean says, “One minute you think we should live together, the next it’s _still new_.”

“You know my opinion about this _literally_ doesn’t matter,” Sam says, “Anyway, you already said that you _did_ make your mind up, now you’re using this fight as a way to justify having cold feet.”

“My feet are toasty-fucking-warm, Sam. This is just a timings issue.”

“Good,” Sam says.

“Your opinion does matter,” Dean says, after a few moments of watching Sam cut up the rest of his chicken. “‘Bout all of it. You’ve earned the right to have an opinion.”

“My opinion” Sam says, “Is that you just need to _talk to him_ rather than bitching at me about it.” 

“Awesome,” Dean mutters with an eye roll, and finishes his kid beer. 

*

He gets back home to find Cas huddled up in the kitchen wearing Dean’s freaking dressing gown.

And ---

_Goddamn_ , he can’t deal with Cas looking like that, all crumpled and looking a helluva lot like he’s been fucking _crying_ \-- like that’s okay, for Castiel to be upset when Dean is _not there_ \-- and he looks so damn sad and Dean doesn't know how to freaking fix it.

“Cas,” Dean says, crossing the room and reaching out for him, “What’s wrong?”

“Hello Dean.”

“Cas.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Cas says, but he still falls into a hug like there’s nothing else propping him up, or like he’s trying to soak up strength through osmosis, which makes it about as believable as the plotlines in Dr Sexy. “I am ---- giving up on my father’s books.”

“Okay,” Dean says, as Castiel hides his face in Dean’s chest. He’d been expecting _this_ , at any rate, even if he didn’t expect Cas to time this particular freak out when Dean was out. He’s been teetering on the edge of the whole next wave of grief for a while and Dean figured the best thing he could was just wait for the hammer to fall, but maybe he should’ve been doing more. “You okay?”

“Yes,” Castiel says, “They don’t help. It didn’t _help_ , Dean, it was just ….”

“Yeah,” Dean exhales, with Cas all bundled up in _Dean’s dressing gown_ , soft and warm and so much closer than Dean ever thought he’d be. Dean has _wanted_ this. He really wanted this and it’s _something_ to have Castiel seeking warmth and comfort from him. In an ideal world, Cas wouldn’t _feel like this_ , but it’s still... something.

“I thought I would have _direction_ by now.”

“Thought you liked the soup kitchen. Volunteering at the girl scouts. Litter picking at the community centre.” 

“Dean, I don’t have a job.”

“Cas,” Dean says, “I fix cars. Not like anyone’s queuing up to give me a damn nobel peace prize. You’re doing _good_ in the world. You _have_ direction.”

“I have spent six hours today watching a program about making excessively decorated cakes, Dean,” Castiel says, “I don’t even like cake.”

“That’s cause you’re a pie man by default.”

“By default of what?”

“Relationship status,” Dean says, which gets him an almost smile. “C’mon,” Dean says, tugging him towards the sofa by the dressing gown sleeve and sitting down, pulling Cas with him. “You’re gonna be okay.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because,” Dean says, “They promoted you to chicken soup. Because, Cas, you’re generous and smart and kick ass and you’ve spent the last couple of months _helping people_. Look, I’m —- I’m sorry this book thing hasn’t worked out, but I’m not _surprised_. I get wanting to do something for your Dad, but you gotta —- you gotta do something for _yourself_ and, yeah, you’ve really got to upgrade your tv binging, but you’ll be okay.”

“I don’t think there’s a show about excessively decorated pie.” Castiel deadpans, settling with his head on Dean’s chest. 

“I’m thinking ditching the baking crap all together,” Dean says. “And I’m buying you a damn dressing gown.”

“I — sorry. Do you want it back now?”

“No,” Dean says, “You’re cute.”

“That’s much more generous than pathetic.”

“You’re not _fucking pathetic_ ,” Dean says, “What kicked all this off?”

“I have been thinking about it all week,” Castiel says, “I decided I had to make a decision tonight.”

“Huh,” Dean says. “Is _that_ why you chased me out of here?”

Castiel sits up properly to frown at him, forehead creased in confusion.

“Dean, you had a scheduled dinner with your brother.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, picking at the thread on his t-shirt, “But I haven’t seen you all week and I… you’re upset.”

“I’ll live.”

“Not the point.” Dean says, “Thought we agreed you weren’t gonna banish me when you’re upset.”

“My father died eight months ago, not last night. I am not helpless enough that I need you to cancel your plans to babysit me,” Castiel says, “And I didn’t _banish you_ —- You were going out.”

“Well I didn’t freaking want to.”

“You didn’t say that,” Cas says, “You asked me if I _needed you_ to cancel on your brother, which I didn’t.”

“Such a fucking lawyer.”

“I am not _being a lawyer_. I didn’t know you didn’t want to go.”

“Well, I didn’t,” Dean says, “And now you’ve been here on your own _fucking crying_ , while I’ve been sat pissing Sammy off for being shitty company.”

“And this is why you _use your words_ , Dean,” Cas says, “If you had asked me if I _wanted you_ here this evening I would have said yes, but I substituted for your dressing gown and eating the last of your bacon.”

“That was supposed to be for breakfast,” Dean says, “But — good. That you wanted me here.”

“Dean,” Castiel says, frowning at him, “Obviously I want you here.”

“Doesn’t —- doesn’t feel that obvious, to me,” Dean says, “Because you didn’t. Want to be here. And I just, I dunno. Usually you _translate_ and work out that stuff and you were so freaking insistent about me going to see Sam.”

“I am demonstrating how supportive I am of your relationship with your brother,” Cas says, “As opposed to being needy and asking you to cancel your plans to spend time with me when it is _my fault_ I haven’t seen you all week.” 

“And how was that for you?” Dean asks, as Cas returns to using Dean as a pillow.

“It was not the best evening I have ever had.”

“What we've got here is failure to communicate.” Dean says, wrapping his arms around him and feelling some of that nagging _worry_ at the back of his head dissipate slightly. He _knows_ that Sam is probably right about all of it. He _knows_ that Cas’ disappearing-thing is age-old coping strategy that doesn’t actually have anything to do with him, but ---

He didn’t _like_ hanging around his apartment on his own. He’s done it for years, but now he knows what it’s _actually like_ to have Cas around all the time, with his bedhead and his deadpans and his _heart_ and his opinions and his sincere declarations of affection, he wants to keep it. Wants to clutch hold of it and cement and make it _completely permanent_.

“When you said me not answering my phone made you ‘crazy’, you meant _insecure_ , not frustrated.”

“Bingo,”

“I didn’t know that,” Cas says, “It seems so absurd to me that you would have doubts about how I feel that it didn’t occur to me. I’m --- sorry.”

“You already apologised,” Dean says, “It’s --- it’s okay, it’s just. Have a thing about people taking off on me.”

“I know that,” Cas says, because of course Cas knows that. He was _there_ the first six hundred times John Winchester put them in the rearview mirror without looking back and Cas got a pretty good seat to the maelstrom of Dean Winchester’s internal-bullshit that happened whenever Sam talked about college. He overcompensated hard enough about _Cas_ taking off that he somehow talked him into going to freaking California rather than Boston, but it still felt a lot like he was being left in the dust. “And --- I understand, Dean. My father left too. Anna, Gabriel.”

“You got them back.”

“Yes,” Castiel says, “They found me, after I walked away from the court case.”

“The big Milton & Milton showdown.”

Castiel inclines in his head slightly.

“Sometimes, people leave for a good reason,” Cas says, “Sometimes they are shirking their responsibility.”

“Chuck.” Dean says, brushing his fingers over the line of Cas’ spine. 

“I just wanted to know what he thought of me,” Cas says, “Just _once_. I thought --- reading his words would make things _clearer_ , but his opinion on anything is as opaque and unattainable as ever.”

“If he had a single ounce of sense, he’d be proud of you.”

“Of _what_?” Cas asks, some venomous edge to his voice that Dean doesn’t like. He really goddamn wishes he could make Cas view himself like _Dean_ sees him, because Cas is so fucking hard on himself. 

“Of _you_ , Cas. Of getting out of some toxic environment that made you unhappy and trying to work out what you want. Of _helping_ people.”

“I have barely touched the surface of writing the wrongs I have committed,” Cas says, sitting up and pulling the dressing gown closer towards him. “The point is, _Dean_ , I didn’t intend to ignore you in the first place and I have no intention of doing it again, but even if it _does_ happen, it will be temporary. I have grand designs to be with you forever.” 

“Cas,” Dean says, after a little longer of chewing the words over in his head and working up the fucking nerve, because he knows exactly how much Cas is going to _not_ want to talk about this but… they’re doing pretty well at this _talking_ thing tonight and he doesn’t know how the hell else they can move forward. “ Tell me about the litigation against Milton & Milton.” 

He gets the exact _wounded and hurt_ look he was expecting, but he doesn’t actually physically pull away any further, which is something.

“No.”

“Cas,” Dean says, “Come on, man.”

“If this is an attempt to make me feel _better_ then I guarantee you it will fail.”

“Yeah, it is, I’m just playing the long game.”

“The _long game_?”

“Cas, you’ve never forgiven yourself for any of this crap,” Dean says, “And I’m pretty damn sure is part of the problem is that you think _I_ never forgave you for it and, honestly, _I don’t care_ about whatever the hell went down back there, but you do, and --- we gotta talk about it, Cas.”

“I made a mistake,” Castiel says, “There’s nothing else to say about it.”

“Cas.”

“Dean, it _cost me_.”

“I fucking know that, Cas,” Dean says, “But you just --- you stack everything ontop of every other thing, til you blame yourself for every damn thing that’s ever happened in your life and it doesn’t _work_ like that. They’re not dominos. It’s not _this_ and then the next thing and the next thing, sometimes stuff just happens. This _guilt_ doesn’t help anyone and ---- I need to know, Cas.”

“You _need_ to know,” Castiel repeats, something bitter-sounding at the back of this throat.

“We’ve had worse conversions, Cas.”

“ _Those_ conversations didn’t paint me in exactly the same way you’ve accused me of in your worst moods.”

“Forget whatever the hell I said,” Dean says, “Cas, the thought of you carrying around some dumb shit that I said when I fucked up _kills me_ , okay? You tried to tell me what you were doing and I didn’t listen because I was _pissed_ and insecure and it’s too damn late, but I wanna hear you out about it now.” Dean says, as Cas resolutely doesn’t look at him. Dean takes his hand and forces his voice into that _coaxing_ voice that usually has Cas smiling at him pretty quickly, because they’ve ducked out of this conversation for long enough. He should’ve bought it up over breakfast yesterday, but he _hates_ putting that look on Cas’ face and he’d already seen enough of it that week. “Sam said you dropped it after they offered some settlement. He said some families got compensation for the shitty drugs, but you said that you lost all this money. Just wanna understand.”

“You talked about this with your brother,” Cas says, an ugly humour colouring his voice. “Wonderful.”

“Once,” Dean says, “This super fun conversation where Sam pointed out that the whole fucking reason I have any problem with the whole _money, lawyer, privilege_ shit is that it makes me feel like I’m not good enough to shine your damn shoes, let alone _be with you_ , but that’s my problem and it’s about time you stopped letting me blame you for it. So _what_ happened?”

Cas turns to look at him with that steady blue gaze for a long moment. 

If he was going to put money on it, he’d’ve predicted that Sam’s suggestion of ‘go home, start another argument’ wouldn’t be too far off the mark. He wouldn’t really _blame_ Cas for it, either, because Dean’s never actually asked about any of this before. It was one of those topics that they skimmed over, it’s just that Dean’s pretty sure _that doesn’t work_ , because then they end up yelling about a fight they had seven years ago and Dean doesn’t even realise that he can thank _Crowley_ for a lot of Castiel’s resistance to being honest about his damn emotions. He wants this to _work_ and that means he’s prepared to dredge this up, again and again, until Castiel is prepared to talk about it, but he’s not really expecting him to say anything now.

Except, Castiel gaze tracks over his face, he tenses his shoulders and then he looks back down at his hands.

“They _were_ negligent with those drugs, Dean. They were making people unwell. Then Milton & Milton took them on as a client, after _my mother_... and I went to speak to Raphael, to speak to him like an _adult_ and he told me he did not care. He said that they were worth millions to him in billings and he _didn’t care_. I told him I had a doctor who was willing to testify that _those drugs_ may have cost her two entire years, and he would not lift a finger.” Cas says, gaze fixed on a point on the wall as he talks. Dean didn’t know he’d gone to Raphael, first. The way Cas told the story, he’d jumped right into _lawsuits_ and _trust funds_ , but… there was a lot of stuff going on in Dean’s head back then. He’d be drinking. He’d already been tangled up with Alastair. He wasn’t necessarily thinking rationally about _anything_.

“I was two when she died. If she’d lived until I was four, I might have _remembered_ her, Dean.”

There’s not really a damn thing he can do with that other than hold his hand a little tighter. 

“I found three plaintiffs and presented it to my law firm, but --- I was an associate and they didn’t think I could win. Crowley was a junior partner, but his influence wasn’t enough and --- they said that we could do it if we found a way to fund the lawsuit ourselves, but they wouldn’t spend a dime on it. And I went to every bank and every investor I knew, and I couldn’t find anyone to bank roll it, but I did find _more_ plaintiffs, more _sick_ mothers and --- and then Crowley suggested we could fund it _ourselves, ourselves_.”

“So using _your_ money was _his_ idea,” Dean says, in his best attempt at keeping the contempt out of his voice. 

“Crowley didn’t have any money,” Castiel says.

“Uh, I _met_ the guy, Cas.” Dean says, although that’s only true in the roughest sense. They met a handful of times and didn’t really have a conversation, but he still knows how to tell when someone has money. It’s a fun _growing up poor_ perk that Cas will probably never understand, because he just fundamentally _sees money differently_. 

“Crowley doesn’t _come_ from money,” Cas corrects, “He just _matched_ his expenditure to his income. He didn’t have any significant savings, but --- Yes. Getting access to my trust fund was his idea.”

“Huh.”

“Dean, he signed an iron clad prenup and we had separate bank accounts. He had no access to that money for himself at _any point_. For all his faults, he was not just trying to marry rich, it was just --- the only way to make litigation possible.”

“Out of the goodness of his own heart, huh?”

“I didn’t say that,” Cas frowns, “They promised him a senior partnership if we were successful and --- that they would accelerate my route to partnership, but he did care about getting justice for my mother. To an extent.”

“After leveraging it to his advantage.”

“That’s what he does,” Cas says, “That wasn’t new information, Dean, and --- I signed a contract that I would fund the litigation action up to the point of personal bankruptcy. The concept of getting a salary of over a hundred thousand at the end of it was not _unhelpful_ in feeling confident about that decision.”

A hundred fucking thousand dollars. 

“I’m no lawyer, but that sounds like a _bad fucking idea_ ,” Dean says, because he needs to say something that isn’t just some derogatory comment about Crowley. That doesn’t help anyone, either, but it’s hard to squash the reflex. “But --- you were doing it for your mom.”

“No, I wasn’t,” Cas says, “Perhaps I thought I was, in my prideful moments, but --- I wanted to be taken seriously. I wanted to make my father _pay attention_. I wanted to wipe that expression off Raphael’s face. I wanted to be the youngest junior partner in the firm’s history. I _told myself_ that I was doing it for her as I signed away the money she left me, but it wasn’t about her. I’m sure she would have hated it.”

“Cas, you said people were getting sick.”

“They were,” Cas says, “They were cutting corners to maximise profits and it was hurting people, and we proved that. We won the first case. They settled and those people got their compensation. The first suite was to make a point, and then we were going to slam it down their throats. We had _strategised_ about maximum impact and putting them out of business and making Raphael pay. We had a plan.”

“And?”

“And,” Cas says, “Bartholomew came to see me and told me that the rest of the board of Milton & Milton had no idea what was happening. They said Rapahel was stepping down. That the head of the pharmaceutical company had lost their job and,” Cas says, his grip on Dean’s hand tightening, “And he showed me a picture of mother and told me how much the drugs had improved her quality of life in those final years, before they switched her to the other drugs, and he told me that what we were doing would put them out of business entirely and he asked me to drop it.”

“And you did,” Dean supplies, because _obviously_ he did. Cas has made plenty of crappy decisions, but he’s reasonable and just and compassionate to a fault. 

“Yes,” Castiel says, “I did. They were going to offer reasonable settlements to the rest of the plaintiffs, less than what we’d have gotten through court, but it was enough that they wouldn’t go out of business and ---- they are my family, Dean. They are _maddening_ , but you were right when you told me I didn’t really want to fight them. I wanted _attention_ , not litigation.”

“Then I don’t get it,” Dean says, “You dropped it.”

“Yes, _I_ dropped it. Crowley did not.” 

“What?” Dean asks, some fresh hatred blossoming in his gut, because --- _shit_. “But it was your case.”

“No,” Cas says, with a humourless smile, “I was an associate and Crowley was the listed attorney of record. There wasn’t anything I could do.”

“So that _dickwad_ burnt through your bank account to spite you?”

“No,” Cas says, “He did it because he wanted to be a senior partner and because he was within his legal rights to do so. He dragged it out for _two and a half years_ , taking increasing financial risk because it made no difference to him either way, until the pharmaceutical company was forced into bankruptcy. It was --- humiliating. I had to ask Michael for help with getting out of that damnable contract and _my marriage_ and, obviously, I didn’t get my promotion. They thought I lacked the _killer instinct_ for backing out.” Cas says, “They were right;I have never been the necessary kind of ruthless.”

“ _Good_ ,” Dean exhales, “Cas --- not being a raging fucking asshole is fucking great. I _love_ you for having enough of a damn heart to try and do the right thing.”

“Dean, I _couldn’t stop it_ ,” Cas says, “I didn’t _do the right thing_. I did _nothing_. That company didn't deserve to go out of business, Dean, people lost their jobs and I _paid for it with my mother’s money_.”

“How much?” Dean asks, “How _much_ money did he burn through?”

“I don’t think you want me to answer that question.” Cas says, with a grim enough look on his face that Dean thinks he’s probably right. He doesn’t _want_ to not want to know, but… he can’t pretend that Cas signing some blank cheque for some people he doesn’t even know doesn’t bother him, because it does. He _doesn’t want it too_ , because Sam’s right about that too. Cas can’t win. He _can’t win_. 

“Okay,” Dean says, because something’s _just fucking occured to him_ and he cares more about _this_ than any amount of money, anyway, because it’s biggest giveaway that he’s seen to how crappy Castiel’s self-esteem actually is so far. _Convenient and lonely_. The week Cas found out his Dad was dead, he _slept_ with the guy who stole his goddamn money, and it wasn’t a one off. “Different question. _Better question_. How the hell did you end up back in bed with the guy after that?”

Castiel smiles, a bitter, sad thing that kinda makes Dean want to hunt Crowley down and tear his fucking limbs off, slowly, and —-

—- it’s not just them sleeping together. Castiel has spent the last four years working with him. Crowley is the one that denied him leave to go to the Beach House. Crowley is the one that started sending lawsuits after Cas rage-quit and threatened his partnership buy-in. Dean _met him_ in New York, as Cas coolly handed back his work laptop. He had _no idea_ it was this bad, or Dean would have punched his damn lights out.

_Convenient and lonely_. 

“It was, largely, just business,” Cas says, like that makes _any sense_. Dean’s made these shitty excuses before. It was different, obviously, because Alastair broke his ribs and smiled about it, but it started like that. Compartmentalising. Putting _sleeping with Alastair_ into a different box to _Alastair causing him pain_ and thinking that he had it under control. There’s the same kind of psychology to it: to think that it’s okay for someone to treat you like shit if you’ve created some fictional wall between this and that. Business, pleasure. Sex, pain. Relationship, _bad day_. He’s spent a lot of time tearing that carefully constructed complicated structure down, because he built it to hide the fact that he hated himself enough that he didn’t care what the hell happened to him, and it _sucked_. It was painful and hard and facing down the shit things you believe about yourself is never fun, but he detangeled it in the end. 

Thinking of _Cas_ buying into that way of thinking makes his chest ache.

“Crowley wasn’t trying to cause me personal damage, he was trying to make a point about me flaking out on our deal and… we weren’t sleeping together during that period.” Cas says, like that makes _anything better_. “He got his senior partnership. And… in the end I managed to dissolve our agreement just after he had won one of the suites, to the tune of a hundred million. I manage to —- well, I was able to ensure that I received his legal fees, so he didn’t get any billables for the biggest win of his career. Quid pro quo, Dean, and _that_ got me my junior partnership. It cost the firm money, but they were impressed. I went to Crowley's apartment, our old home, on the guise of giving him the final paperwork, and then told him that I had gotten my junior partnership and that he wasn’t getting paid. He laughed. And —- he reminded me that we both got what we wanted. Promotions, notoriety and a twisted justice for my mother. We drank to our success and ended up sleeping together. Six weeks later I asked if I could move to a different office because I was horrified at myself.”

“Cas,”

“I was _despicable_ , Dean. I squared an amount of money that could change lives for _pride_ and was given a job at the end of it. I used Crowley’s legal fees to pay for my partnership buy-in. It cost me our friendship and, after everything I had done, I couldn’t disagree with a single thing you said, or imagine you finding me anything other than selfish, shallow and privileged. I don’t like the man that made those decisions.”

Dean leans forward and kisses the corner of his mouth, because it’s the only place he can get to right now. Cas turns to look at him, with that familiar crease in his forehead which is a much better angle to reach forward and kiss him again, and then Cas curls into it which makes it much easier to get him trapped in the loop of Dean’s arms and keep him there.

“Why are you kissing me?”

“Only way I know to get you to look at me dead in the eye. Well, not the only way, but I actually wanna have a conversation,” Dean says, “Cause let’s get one thing fucking straight,” Dean says, “I _like that guy_. Hell, I loved him, but I liked him too. I don’t think you’re selfish,” Dean says, punctuating his words with another kiss, running his thumb over the rough of his jaw. He’d like to reach into Cas’ soul and rip out every bad thought he’s ever had about himself, but he knows it doesn’t work like that. He can’t _fix this_ , because that’s not how dragging around baggage works, but he’s not having Cas fill in these blanks about what Dean _thought_ with barbed insults and straight up lies.

_And this is why you use your words, Dean_.

“Most of your freaking life you could stand to be a little more selfish, with signing away your life savings in some kamikaze mission to help some sick people you’ve never even met —— no, Cas, I don’t _care_ if you were gonna may get some promotion or screw over Raphael, that’s —- incredible. Insane, but incredible.”

“You did not think that at the time.” Cas says, voice a little rough, a little shaky.

“Shush,” Dean says, putting a finger over his lips. “Not done, Castiel. You’ve never been _shallow_. You’re oceans deep. I —- I’ve never known anyone who thinks so hard and so much about _everything_. About people. You are _so_ well freaking meaning and, okay, sometimes you have a problem with _tunnel vision_ , but that’s because you care so damn much. Can’t exactly debate the privileged thing, but that’s not actually a moral failing. I still hate your decision, but mostly that’s because the idea of you marrying someone makes me want to put a fist through the wall, let alone someone who would treat you like that.”

“--- how do you think I feel, Dean?” Cas asks, a choked thing that comes out the back of his throat.

“I know,” Dean says, and let’s the moment settle a little as tries to work out what to say and how to articulate the rushing need to _make Castiel feel loved_ with no real idea of how to do it. “ _All_ I see in that story is a guy who was trying to do the right thing and got screwed over by some piece of shit.”

“Dean, I should have seen it coming.”

“Cas,” Dean says, “You were with him for a _long time_. You don’t expect your partner _of years_ to screw you. No one can live like that. This --- all of this --- is on _Crowley_. You wanted to help.”

“I _failed_ to help.”

“Raphael got the chop. Some douchebag lost his job. Some sick people got paid,” Dean says, “Cas, I had it out with you about this crap because --- because you were getting married and it was killing me, because you weren’t telling me about it until it was _too late_ and because you were talking with all this grandeur about helping people and getting money to the little guy and --- you talking about _trust funds_ and _million dollar settlements_ used to make me feel so fucking small I didn’t know how to look at you even before Alastair, and I knew what I was going home to. I’ve never doubted that you were trying to do the right fucking thing, however everything turned out.”

“You’ve never been small,” Cas says, with that crease in his forehead.

The frustrating part is that Dean doesn't know how to make him see.

“Gordon was trying to talk me into some dodgy as hell _security job_ ,” Dean says, because it's all he's got left, really. He wants to _get through to him_. Shake some of that guilt out of his head. “Wasn’t gonna do it anyway, but then he mentioned _Alastair_ and I said no fucking way, went off on some speil about how I wouldn’t touch anything to do with the guy with a ten foot poll and --- turns out it was _his_ skeevy drinking hole, and he shows up, asks if I’m brave enough to say it to his face.”

“I suppose you were.”

“Yeah,” Dean says with a humourless smile, “Always been dumb like that. Figured he’d rough me up and chuck me out of the place, but he seemed to think it was _funny_. I'd paid back double his bullshit interest, early, to get off his goddamn radar --- that was years ago, that point --- but he remembered me. And he said _we’ll see about that_ and slipped a card with his motel room number in my back pocket and --- was just drunk enough and just high enough on the adrenaline of _not_ getting beaten up to think _why the hell not_? And ---- six weeks later he hit me out of the blue and asked me what I was gonna do about it, and I looked him straight in the eye and said ‘ _not gonna do anything_ ’ and was fucking stupid enough to feel like I’d _won_ , for not letting it get to me. For brushing it off. Thought I had it under control because it was just _sex_ , like because I was still keeping out off his dodgy business dealings and because I didn’t have mushy, romantic feelings for the guy that I was _a-okay_.” 

“Dean,”

“We weren’t _dating_ , so what did it fucking matter if he broke my jaw? And then --- and then I’m rotting in some motel room, with no idea how I got there, cut up and beat up, alone, and it hits me that _I should have seen it coming_. I knew who he was. He didn’t _hide_ that. And I realise I’ve got no one to blame but myself, and ---- by then, I don’t have the strength _to get out_ , with this paralyzing shame, with him far enough in my head that I believe I’m too broken to be fixed.”

“You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I’ve got _plenty_ of things to be ashamed of,” Dean counters, “But --- I’m not ashamed. Not exactly _proud_ of it, either, but. Cas, sometimes shit happens. I’m not saying it’s the same. Mine’s --- bloodier, but you were in an _actual relationship_ with the guy and he betrayed you. Maybe there were warning signs, but it doesn’t _become_ your fault because you missed them.”

“You claim that you’re not blameless for what happened with Alastair.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “Because, Cas, _Crowley_ was ambitious and self-centred, that’s a little different to knowing someone’s a violent criminal and throwing a hail mary. And --- look, I’m not trying to say you’re not culpable for any bad thing that’s ever happened to you, or even that I’d’ve _approved_ if I knew the facts because —- call me a romantic, but I don’t think you should get married to win a lawsuit.”

“You are a romantic,”

“But none of that is enough to mean that either your Mom or your Dad wouldn’t be proud of you,” Dean says, “And it doesn’t put you in some cosmic debt to the world, so if you’re doing this volunteering stuff because you think you _owe_ humankind then forget it, quit, and we’ll find you something you actually enjoy.”

“I do enjoy the soup kitchen,” Castiel says, quiet, “There’s dignity in it.”

“Okay then,” Dean says, “People make mistakes. It happens.”

“You’re very wise.”

“Nope,” Dean says, because _he’s not_. He’s just been through the freaking ringer. Every piece of wisdom he _does_ have he paid for in scars and cutting a cheque to a string of freaking therapists. He’s not _wise_ , he just hit rock bottom. “It was do or die on the self-forgiveness crap for me. I could hate myself for every single thing I _let_ happen to me, or I could get over it, and —- I’d spent enough time hating myself. Didn’t wanna do it anymore.”

“There’s nothing in you to hate.” Castiel says, serious and intense and so, so wrong. That’s okay, though. He can live with Cas thinking too much of him. “You are _admirable_ and good and loyal.”

“And you’re _fucking incredible_. Compassionate, kind, whip-smart, _freaking hilarious_. You’re _patient_ and humble to a god damn fault and I’d trust you with my life. On top of that, you’re a handsome sonuvabitch who’s got no business being that hot. You’re braver than I’ve ever been, about your feelings, about walking away from your family, about working out your own thing. The first thing you ever did for me was _give me something with no expectations_ , because you’re generous and self-sacrificial and see the good in people.”

“Dean, I gave you a pen.” Castiel says, with that self conscious almost-smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. 

“First off, we were twelve, that’s pretty much all you had. But that’s not what I meant. You _accepted me_ , even though I was rude and not freaking listening to class, both of which you hate. You were _nicer_ to me than I deserved, and you never let that up. You were the first person to treat me with respect a long time before I earned any and --- _that’s_ who I see and — forget everyone else, I’m proud of you.”

“Are you trying to make me cry again?”

“No, I’m trying to use my words,” Dean says, “Think this stuff all the time, just doesn’t always make it out of my head. But I’ll —- I’ll try harder.”

“That would be nice.” Cas says, shifting again so he can return to using Dean as a pillow, which is a status quo he can really get behind. “I did find a very compelling and addictive show about people who put their pets into daycare, so the evening was not wasted.”

“Sounds worse than the cake thing,” Dean says, “You wanna watch it?” 

“I can catch you up.” Cas says as he reaches for the remote.

“Cas,” Dean says, taking his temporary ability to _move_ without dislodging his dressing-gown-clad boyfriend to rearrange the cushions behind his back. “It’s about rich ass pet owners. I think I’ll pick it up.”

“They have personal dramas too.” Cas says, “Ronnie and Chrissie aren’t speaking currently.”

“Awesome,” Dean mutters with an eye roll, because he’s totally fucking smitted and he’d take watching shitty TV with Cas curled up on his chest over just about anything, especially after _this week_. He was freaking exhausted _before_ they started that conversation, or dredging up more of the Alastair crap and… he’ll text Sam tomorrow and tell him everything’s gonna be fine, but for now he’s gonna let Cas tell him the backstory of some _inane_ TV show like everything is simple.

It is, without a doubt, the worst thing Cas has ever gotten him to watch.

They still watch six episodes before they actually go to bed.

*

Somehow, their Saturday evening turns into _babysitting_.

He’s not really sure how it happened, except right when they were debating whether they should get take out, or _go out_ or if Dean should cook, Nora called. Cas had fixed him with those baby blue eyes and laid on the _poor Nora, single mother, we haven’t actually made any plans_ without saying anything, and Dean caved because he’s freaking whipped. Except, instead of just _accepting his fate_ of a solo-Saturday night, he asked if Nora would mind it he came too.

And now he’s awkwardly stood in Nora’s kitchen for a _joint babysitting venture_. 

Sam sent him three whole messages of laughing-face emojis when Dean told him about it, because his brother is an immature douchebag. 

_Babysitting_. Jesus. 

“So, Castiel,” Nora says, slipping her coat on out in the hall, while Dean looks at the coffee machine in the kitchen and tries to work out how he got here and whether he actually regrets it. The kid is already asleep, although Nora gave a list of instructions long enough that Dean expects she won’t be all night (and Cas nodded a long like this was new information, even though he’s Nora’s standing back-up babysitter, because he’s a good guy like that). The potential for a screaming baby is definitely on the _con_ list, but... on the upside, he gets _Cas_. “Must be serious, if you can’t even spend a night apart.”

Dean’s guessing he’s not really supposed to be listening, so he focuses on staring at the baby monitor. 

“We are able to spend a night apart,” Cas says, ever literal, “But Dean currently believes I’ve been avoiding him.”

“Why?”

“Oh,” Cas says, “Because I was avoiding him.” 

Dean smiles despite himself and decides he might as well make some coffee, given Nora told him they should _make themselves at home_ as she was flitting around the kitchen grabbing keys and lipstick. 

He checks his phone as the coffee is brewing, rolling his eyes at Sam’s _‘have you made the baby cry yet?’_ text and sending a _‘FYI, I am awesome with babies. They love me’_ back with a lot more self confidence than he actually has about it, because he’s pretty sure the last time he was around a baby it was _Sam_.

Apparently, Cas knows what he’s doing, though. He has nieces and nephews. A lot of them, actually, although the only one he’s seen with any real frequency are Samandriel’s kids. 

“Thank you for doing this,” Cas says, stepping back into the kitchen and offering him an affectionate look that definitively answers the ‘ _is this worth it_ ’ question, because he’d do a lot more for Cas looking at him like that.

“‘Bout that,” Dean says, “Feel like I should’ve made it clear that any diapers are _your responsibility_.”

“Where do you stand on vomit?”

“Uh, far away from it,” Dean says, “Pretty much against all bodily fluids.”

“In the context of this evening, or in general?” Cas says, with a raised eyebrow. “This could be problematic for our relationship at large.” 

“Wow, way to lower the tone. There’s a _baby_ in this house.” 

“I’m sorry,” Cas says, taking his coffee, “I didn’t mean to upspur your position as _man who lowers the tone_. I’ll behave myself.”

“Smart ass,” Dean smiles, “So --- what do you usually do when you hang out here?”

“Nora has a television,” Cas says, “And there is an excellent thai food place that delivers here.”

“Okay, Thai,” Dean says, “I can do that.”

“They are _very slow_.”

“Allright, you order me some food, I’m gonna find this TV.”

“Your clue is the sofa is pointing at it,” Cas says, “Do you know what you want?”

“You know what I like.”

“Yes,” Cas says, with another pointed eyebrow raise, “I do.”

“ _You’re_ in a mood,” Dean comments dryly.

“Hmm,” Cas says, casually scrolling through his phone to find the number of the Thai place, “I had alternative plans for you, before we were needed here.” 

“Here’s hoping Nora’s date’s a bust and she gets home early, then,” Dean says, halfway out the door, which makes Cas smile widen a little. 

In reality, Dean’s feeling a little crappy. He’s had a low level headache for most of the damn week, which he was pinning to the whole _Cas ignoring him_ crap but is still lingering. He needs to catch up on some damn sleep, because his body half-aches with it. He’s spent most of the day feeling like he was dragging his limbs through treacle, which was _fine_ for forcing himself into doing the laundry and watching more of that crappy show with Cas, but he’s not sure he’d actually have enough _energy_ for Cas’ alternative plans. 

By the time he gets to Nora’s sofa, Sam has replied with _just don’t go getting any ideas_ with a wink face and Dean is absolutely fucking not dignfying that with a response. 

“What do you want to watch?” Cas asks from the doorway.

“Still got couple of episodes of your bullcrap pet show.”

“Dean,” Cas says, setting the baby monitor on the coffee table and slumping next to him on the sofa. “It is Saturday night and you are _babysitting_ for a woman you barely know to spend time with me. The least I can do is not make you watch TV that you patently hate.”

“It _does_ suck,” Dean throws back, “Uh --- anything?”

“Within reason.”

“And by _within reason_ do you mean _no porn_ or _no Star Wars_.”

“We can watch Star Wars if you want.”

“N’ah,” Dean says, “Just feeling out your boundaries. Let’s just --- see what’s on.”

“Are you alright?” Cas asks, fixing him with a _concerned look_ and casually resting his hand on Dean’s thigh to get his attention. That’s so _normal_ , now. Cas just reaching out with his warmth and easy-affection and precise tenderness. 

“Hmm, tired,” Dean says, “Headachy.”

“Still?” Cas says, “Perhaps you’re coming down with something.”

“N’ah,” Dean says, “Only sick I get is sick in the head.” 

“You _know_ that’s inaccurate,” Cas says, “As for _what’s on_ , we have --- several variants of CSI, some housewives that are, apparently, real, The Goonies ---”

“That gets my vote,” 

“I --- alright,” Cas says, selecting the channel, “You didn’t have to come if you’re feeling unwell.”

“Let’s not start that conversation again,” Dean says, “I wanna be here.”

“Good,” Cas says, resting a head on his shoulder.

“Anyway, the kid’s asleep,” Dean says, with all the naive confidence of someone who's never, ever babysat. “How hard can it be?”

Twenty minutes later, _she wakes up_.

Tanya, as it turns out, has some freaking lungs on her.

And ---- 

Forty-five damn minutes after that, Cas has somehow managed to calm her down. Nora had said something about a ‘clingy phase’ back when she was giving instructions, but it turns out that Tanya _really_ objects to waking up in the middle of the night and finding out that her Mom’s been swapped for a couple of dudes. 

Their food arrived in the middle of all of it, because _obviously_ and Dean’s eaten a couple of spring rolls because Cas kept telling him he should, but mostly he’s watched Cas.

He looks _good_ with little baby Tanya snuggled against his chest. 

She’s a cute kid (when she’s not screaming fucking murder) anyway, even with this crinkled look of displeasure on her forehead, and Cas holds her like he knows what he’s doing, cradling her head with care and confidence. “I know, Tanya,” Castiel says, voice soft and rough and fucking gorgeous, “I am a very poor subsitute for your mother, but tonight I am what you get.” 

Last time Cas tried sitting down she started getting upset again, so he’s stood in the centre of the room almost-swaying and it’s --- it’s sort of hypnotic, sort of _magnetic_ , sort of fucking terrifying to see Cas stood there with this nine month old baby in his arms.

He looks _really good_.

“You’re good at this,”

“If I was good at this, she would be asleep,” Cas returns, brushing her hair out of her face and frowning at her. “Wouldn’t you, Tanya?”

Earlier, he took her back into her bedroom and sang to her. This gravelly, soft voice, singing the damn theme tune from The Greatest American Hero and Dean’s chest nearly caved in. He wasn’t _prepared_ for it, for this sudden spike of affection that just about winded him. In turns out that _Cas and babies_ is a thing, and Dean doesn’t know what the fuck to do with that.

_Don’t go getting any ideas_ , indeed. 

“You gotta eat, Cas,” Dean says, “I can take her.”

“Dean.”

“Babies love me,” Dean says, “Can’t resist my rustic charms, so --- come on. Hand over the goods.”

“Allright,” Cas says, with a brief head-titled look, no doubt where he tries to work out how much of Dean’s false-confidence he actually believes. “She prefers to be upright.”

“Got it,” Dean says, standing up and holding out her arms and…. She tolerates it better than Dean was expecting her too. She _frowns_ at him, but after a moment she seems to settle and rests her chin on Dean’s shoulder. “Okay. Totally --- under control.”

“You don’t know anything about infants, do you?” Cas asks with a smile, loading red thai curry onto a plate.

“Sam was a kid once.”

“You were four.”

“I --- I know stuff. _Support the head,_ ” Dean says, “That’s all I got every time Mom let me hold him. _Support the head, Dean_. And --- don’t give them knives or set them on fire. I’m golden.”

“Well, she seems to like you.”

“I’m _irresistible_.”

“Yes, you are,” Cas says, with his usual complete lack of irony. “She’s falling back to sleep.”

“Huh,” Dean says, trying to get a look at her face without moving or disturbing her. “In which case,” Dean says, stepping gingerly over to the sofa and sitting down very slowly. By some _miracle_ , she just makes a little _whuff_ noise and buries her face in Dean’s shoulder, spark out.

Tanya’s _asleep_ , on him.

She’s extra cute like this. Warm and solid and cosied up on Dean’s chest and so _freaking small_. She’s intimidatingly small and innocent, really. She doesn’t _know_ that her Mom is a single mom running her own business and trying her best to make everything work out with the odds stacked against her. She doesn’t know how _life can be_ , yet, with it’s edges and its hurts. She just wants her Mom to come home. This tiny, soft lump of life that’s fallen asleep in his arms because she feels safe.

“What are you thinking about?” Cas asks, after a little while. They muted the TV when Tanya first woke up, but it’s still churning out light that scatters around the room and… and Dean’s just been sitting here watching her breathe, and Cas has been watching him. He’s felt the thick weight of his gaze on the side of his cheek, but he hadn’t really taken it in.

“Nothing,”

“Dean,”

“Just,” Dean begins, shutting his eyes for a moment. This tiny little perfect _human_ is still breathing in, out, in, out, resting against his chest, and ---- she doesn’t _know_ yet. About what it is to hurt. “Sammy was younger than this when Mom died. He was so damn small.”

“Nora’s partner left her when she was two months pregnant. He has met her once.”

“Douchebag.”

“Yes,” Cas says, “We should try and put her back in her crib.”

“N’ah, it’s okay,” Dean exhales, “She’s all good here.”

“If you’re sure,” Cas says, looking at him with _that look_ and… and, really, the only reason Dean recognises the look is because he was pretty sure it’s been plastered all of his face for most of the damn evening. Something that’s in between affection and love and rootless-longing, because ---

\--- he’s never even _thought_ about it before. It all felt like so far out of the realms of possibility that was laughable and --- there’s a chance that it still is now, because neither of them are exactly poster boys for being fully functioning adults, but it’s ---

It’s _something_ to have Cas looking at him, with baby Tanya asleep on his chest, with this soft smile.

“Do you, uh,” Dean begins, glancing back at the television for courage. He’s tired enough not to overthink it too much, but it still takes a little effort to pick the right words. “You ever want to do the baby thing?”

“The _baby thing_.” Castiel repeats, although Dean’s pretty sure that Cas knows exactly what he’s freaking talking about. He’s not exactly being subtle. 

“Have kids.” Dean says, “You --- you were married. Must have come up in conversation at some point.” 

“It didn’t,” Cas frowns.

“But you’ve looked after your nieces and nephews,” Dean says, “Tanya. You ever think _yep, this is what I want. Two point five kids and a picket fence_.”

“I’ve had moments,” Cas says, “And then I have had moments where I have been exceptionally glad to give the child back.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know,” Cas says, “But I don’t know if you’re asking about _me_ or about _us_.”

“Like to think of the two as intrinsically linked,” Dean says, “I --- I dunno, Cas. We’ve just never talked about it.”

“If I were to want children, I would want them with you.”

“You’re _lawyering_ me.”

“I _don’t know_ , Dean.” Cas says, “I haven’t _dreamed_ of being a father and I wouldn’t consider my life to be unfulfilled if I didn’t have children, but I would be happy if it happened.”

“But it wouldn’t _just happen_.”

“Which is probably why I’ve never thought about it in great depth,” Cas says, “Do you want kids?”

“I --- got no idea,” Dean says. “As a concept, maybe. But. Not like either of us have got decent role models for fatherhood.” 

He probably wouldn’t have worded it like _that_ if he was feeling less groggy, given Cas is pretty sensitive about Chuck right now. It’s not _inaccurate_ , because Chuck screwed Cas up good and proper, but… still.

“There’s Bobby.”

“Yeah,” Dean smiles, because the idea of Cas automatically counting him makes his stomach flip. “Just ---- I know what can happen to a person. How bad the world can get, and I --- I think maybe I’d drive myself crazy, worrying all the damn time, turning into a paranoid bastard like my Dad.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I _might_ ,” Dean says, “Feels like life might always be complicated enough, as is, without a kid. But ---- I don’t know. Maybe I won’t feel like that forever. Maybe I will. That okay?”

“Yes,” Cas says, “That is okay, Dean.”

“Good,” Dean says, then mulls the words over in his head for a few moments, as Tanya sleeps on, “Would you want to do the marriage thing again?”

“You mean the _romantic_ version where you don’t marry someone for a lawsuit?” Cas asks. “Yes.”

He’d been a little worried that Cas was being noncommittal so he could fit in with whatever Dean expressed, but —- Cas is quick enough off the mark with his _yes_ for it all to be believable.

“I believe in the institution of marriage.”

“The institution,” Dean repeats, feeling his eyebrow raise, “Wow.”

“Don’t you?”

“Honestly, I’ve never really thought about it before. Never had a reason to,” Dean says, until he hears the words that have come out of his mouth and backtracks slightly. “Historically, I mean. Not _against it_ ,” Dean says, because that feels slightly less insane than saying _I’d marry you_ when it’s been less than six months and he hasn’t really ever thought about it before. He _has_ thought about growing old with the guy , but pressing into the details of what that might actually look like is a little wild. Not _bad wild_ , but ---

Dean’s never _done that_ before.

“I don’t,” Dean begins, although he’s not really sure if he should say it. His _pretending it never happened_ thing didn’t really work out, but there’s a difference between that and continuing to bring it up. “Know it shouldn’t matter, but it —- it would bother me if, on paper, Crowley got more of you than I did.”

“I’m glad you didn’t come to the wedding,” Cas says, even though it doesn’t make a lick of sense. Cas was angry about that for years and, rightly so, because Dean _let him down_. “If we do ever get married, I don’t want you to have that image in your head. I don’t want it to _cross your mind_ because it is —— irrelevant and insignificant. I hated it at the time, but I’m glad you didn’t see it.”

“You really mean that?” Dean asks, head resting on the back of the sofa to look at him feeling a little wrong-footed and awed, because that’s… _that’s_ a different level of forgiveness and understanding. He doesn’t know how Cas still has this ability to surprise him, but he’s _astounding_.

“Our future is more important than the past.”

God, _he loves him_. Right down to his damn bone marrow, this wonderful, perfect guy who's just self-sacrificial enough to really mean that. And, forget _being fine_ , they’re gonna be awesome. They’re gonna be _great at this_ ; at building some bright, easy future, at communicating, about being in love and not overthinking it. Freaking _marriage_. Maybe the whole shebang.

“Yeah,” Dean says, smiling like a total love-struck asshole, “And --- not _if_ we get married. When. That’s —- not a freaking _proposal_. I’ll ask you properly one day. _In the future_ , a long way from now.”

“Okay,”

“Pretty sure you’re supposed to say _I’ll say yes_ or some crap like that.”

“Wouldn’t want to give away the suspense,” Cas says, looking at him with abject affection that leaves very little room for doubt. _Obviously_ , Cas isn’t going anywhere. He was just getting in his head for no good reason.“We should get a cat.”

“Hell no,”

“We’ll see,” Cas says, with a perfect little smile, pressing a kiss onto the rough of his cheek before he turns the volume back on the TV. 

At some point, Dean falls asleep. That hazy, almost-dozing, where he’s _half_ aware of Cas clearing up the rest of their food then taking up residence next to him on the sofa with the hum of the news in the background, but mostly he’s comfortable and still, with baby Tanya still splayed out across his chest, breathing.

“Hello Nora,” Cas says, warm and soft, and Dean can _feel_ the guy talking, which probably means at some point he slumped on his shoulder. “How was your date?”

“Oh, you know,” her voice says, and that’s probably Dean’s cue to wake up, but his eyelids are too heavy and his limbs hurt and ---- he’s _comfortable_. “We can’t all be lucky enough for our High School Sweetheart to show up and sweep us off our feet. It was --- okay. Nice. We’re going out again next week.”

“Good,” Cas says, “She woke up for awhile, I was going to put her back own but ---”

“Hey, baby cuddles are the best part,” Nora says, “He’s handsome, your Dean.”

“Yes. Very handsome.”

“So, you done avoiding him?”

“Yes.I was being… idiotic. Dean makes me very happy.”

“Now _that’s_ music to my ears. It’s good to see you happy, Castiel.”

“Thank you. I’ll wake him up.”

“Should get a picture first.”

“I took one earlier.”

“Attractive men with babies,” Nora says, “Should be banned, I’m telling you.” 

“He does look _very_ good, doesn’t he?”

“Mhmmm. I am going to need my baby back, Castiel.”

“I’ll allow it,” Cas says, and then there’s a hand on his shoulder and the warm weight of _baby_ is carefully lifted off his chest.

“Hey there, Sleeping Beauty,” Nora says, smiling at him as Dean blearily opens his eyes, “Seems like my kid likes you.”

“Hey,” Dean says, groggy and rough, “D’you --- good night?”

“Not bad,” Nora says, “I’ll go put her down. Maybe you should do the same, Castiel.”

“Hilarious,” Dean says, standing up and stretching.

“Do you need coffee before you drive home?”

“Uh,” Dean says, because his head does still feel a little fuzzy and the idea of doing the seventy five minute stint back to his apartment doesn’t _thrill_ him. “Let’s just go to your place,” Dean says, pinching his forehead to try and chase away some of the tendrils of exhaustion and… he hasn’t actually _been_ to Cas’ place for a while, more out of practically than anything else. He felt bad about that for a couple of weeks, until Sam pointed out that _Cas’ decision_ to look for bleeding hearts who needed help near Dean’s apartment is the actual reason for that. Staying at Cas’ now adds a solid hour’s drive to both of their commutes, which makes it just inconvenient enough that it tends not to happen. Right now, though, Cas’ apartment is a mere twenty minutes away and Dean _really_ wants to crawl into bed and sleep.

“Okay,” Cas agrees, heading back out into the hall to say goodbye to Nora while Dean pulls on his jacket, head spinning.

When he _finally_ gets in bed --- in one of Cas’ t-shirts and his boxers, because apparently Dean doesn’t have that much crap at Cas’ place even though Cas has half of Dean’s damn wardrobe at this point --- Cas curls around him and says _of course I’d say yes_ and Dean’s halfway trying to find the right way to say that they’re still not getting a fucking cat when he falls alseep.

*

In the morning he feels like shit.

He slept _too heavily_ with thick, complicated dreams. Not his normal nightmares, but too vivid, sprawling dreams that cling to the corners of his head after he’s woken up, disorientated and _achey_. His niggling headache has blossomed into something painful enough that Dean has no intention to move his head _ever again_ and there’s this chill that’s settled under his skin, into his bones.

“I have coffee,” Cas says, setting a mug down on the bedside table and sitting on the edge of the bed. He’s not _convinced_ by the concept, but he forces himself upright --- big fucking mistakes for his head --- and takes it gingerly. “I was going to ask if you were feeling better, but...”

“M’ peachy,” Dean mutters, shutting his eyes.

“You don’t _look_ very peachy,” Cas says, reaching out and pressing his palm against his forehead. His hand is blessedly cool, blotting out a little of the throbbing ache behind his eyes. “You’re hot.”

“ _Feel_ cold.”

“Dean,” Cas frowns, “You’re shaky.”

“I,” Dean begins, but he feels a little like someone’s sapped out all his strength and he doesn’t really have the energy to debate the point, because if he looks anywhere near as bad as he feels he’s not gonna win the argument. “Yeah. I --- sleep.”

“You need to take some painkillers for your temperature.” 

“Kay.” Dean exhales, shutting his eyes again and trying not to move his head. He sips a little more of his coffee as Cas fusses around trying to find painkillers, because _usually_ coffee is essential to making him feel alive even if right now it’s almost unappealing.

“Here,” Cas says, forehead creased with worry.

“Thought I wasn’t allowed painkillers on an empty stomach,” Dean says, taking the drugs and the glass of water.

“I don’t own any food,” Cas says, looking pained, “And --- those are the last of the drugs in this apartment.”

“Wanna go home anyway,” Dean says, thinking vaguely of _his dressing gown_ and his sofa with something a little like home sickness. He doesn’t really like Cas’ apartment, even though it’s objectively nice. His _bed_ is pretty freaking awesome, but mostly it’s all style over comfort, sleek lines and hard surfaces. Dean doesn’t _have_ anything here, either, and if he’s gonna be feeling like warmed up death, he wants his own damn stuff. His _clothes_ , his pillows, his comfort movies.

“We took your car.”

“Huh?”

“Dean,” Cas says, “You do not look fit to drive.”

“I --- I’ll be okay in an hour or so,” Dean says, “Got drugs and coffee, all set.”

“You’re _sick_.”

“You ain't driving my damn car,”

“I know, Dean,” Cas frowns, “That’s not what I --- I just want to help.”

“I’ll be fine,” Dean mutters, draining the last of his coffee and pressing his palm to his forehead to block out some of the pain. It helps, a little, till he tries to move to pull the covers closer around him and the motion of it trips the pain into _nausea_ and ---

\--- Coffee was a bad idea. 

Throwing up makes him feel _even worse_ , like all his muscles have turned into overcooked spaghetti and everything _hurts_ and he hates getting sick. He _hates_ feeling pathetic and helpless, with his head pounding and his stomach rolling.

“Going back to sleep,” Dean grunts as he emerges from Cas’ bathroom, crawling back under the covers and settling in the only place it doesn’t hurt his head.

*

When he wakes up a second time, he’s drenched in cold sweat and it feels a little like his face has caught fire. He discovers his head hurts a little less as he kicks off the covers and sits up with a muffled groan of complaint and ---

Cas is sat on the other side of the bed with a book cracked open on his knees.

“Hey,” Dean mutters, testing out the temperature of his forehead on the back of his hands. “ _Now_ I’m buying the hot thing.”

“Here,” Cas says, pressing a glass of water into his hands. “You need to keep up your fluids.”

“Okay, Doc,” Dean says, taking a sip, “What --- what time is it?”

“One,” Cas says, “I’ve told Bobby not to expect us for lunch, or for you to be at work tomorrow.”

Dean makes a grunt of acknowledgement and presses the cool edge of the glass of water against the side of his face. He _wants_ to get all prissy about how it’s not Cas’ decision if he’s well enough to work, but it feels a little someone’s put all his insides into a blender and poured them back into his body. It wasn’t exactly _late_ when they got home last night, so Dean’s already slept for over twelve freaking hours. He can fight him on it later. Tomorrow.

“I spoke to your brother. He said you didn’t eat on Friday night, either.” Cas says, fixing him with _a look_. “You could have told me you were getting sick.”

“Don’t get sick.”

“Clearly,” Cas deadpans, “You need to eat something.”

“Thought you didn’t own food.”

“I went to the shop. I _walked_ ,” He clarifies, his frown creased into the centre of his forehead, “But there is soup and painkillers, if you feel well enough.”

“M’fine.”

“Dean,” Cas says, “Don’t be idiotic. You haven’t eaten properly for days.”

“I --- okay, soup,” Dean says, feeling out the corner of the bed to pull himself up.

“I can bring it to you.”

“Wanna get up,” Dean counters.

“You may move to the sofa, but you _will_ allow me to look after you,” Cas says, radiating enough of that _badass corporate lawyer power_ that Dean wouldn’t argue even if the concept of Cas playing nurse wasn’t a little appealing. It’s undignified as hell, too, but --- but he can _probably_ tolerate Cas insisting on bringing the duvet out into the front room, just in case Dean gets cold again, and smoothing a hand over his shoulders as he insists on bringing him more water.

He really _did_ talk to Sam, looks like, because a couple of minutes later Cas is presenting him with the tomato and rice soup that Mary Winchester used to make when he was sick and ---

It doesn’t suck.

“I think you have the flu,” Cas says, after Dean’s spent a good thirty minutes slowly working his way through his soup and deposited his head on Cas’ lap, with the chill beginning to creep back up his spine. He could easily go back to sleep right now, but Cas put on Star Wars and is brushing his fingers through his hair, which is nice. Comforting. Worth staying half awake for.

“Cas,” Dean says, and the word takes a lot more effort than it should do, “I wanna go home.”

“I know,” Cas says, voice coloured with anguish and sympathy. Cas has always hated feeling helpless. “But you’re sick.”

“I hate your apartment,” Dean mutters, even though he _shouldn’t_. He’s pointedly not offered an opinion on it for a whole host of good reasons, but he just --- he _doesn’t want to be here_. He feels like shit and he’s pathetic and miserable enough for his filter not to work properly. He’s a freaking _mess_ right now, sweaty and shaky, shamelessly sprawled across his boyfriend for physical comfort.

“I know, Dean,” Cas says, smoothing his fingers over his forehead and ---

\--- Yesterday they talked about getting married, one day. About kids. About the cat they’re definitely never fucking getting. Last week, Dean booked dinner at the french restaurant (and he needs to stop with that, because every time he makes a plan that involves that place it always ends up going to hell) with every intention of asking Cas to move in with him. Cas bought him soup and is letting Dean sleep in his lap, even though he’s gross and _sick_ and ---

He just wants to go home.

Dean pulls himself up with great effort and stands up. He still feels _weak_ , but the drugs he actually managed to keep down seem to have helped, a bit, clearing his head of the brain-fog enough for him to know he’s being stubborn and stupid. 

He deposited his leather jacket on the back of the chair when he got home last night and it’s still there.

‘Here,” Dean says, digging out his car keys and throwing them in Cas’ direction. “One time deal.” 

“Dean,” Cas frowns, eyes widened at the keys in his hand. “Are you sure?”

Last time he got taken out by some virus, he was sick for a week and the hell is Dean staying _here_ for a week, with two t-shirts and none of his own underwear. Granted, that's partially because he was stubborn enough to tell Sam it wasn't that bad, even though he was doing a crappy job of stuff like _cooking and consuming_ food and drinking enough liquid, till Sammy showed up on day four with a lecture about 'this is what telling me everything means, Dean' and nagged him into submission. 

“Yeah,” Dean says, with a little more conviction that he actually has.

He’s _less_ sure by the time that he slides into the passenger seat of his baby, bundled up in a blanket that Cas dug out from somewhere, after Cas unsuccessfully tried to talk him into sleeping it off for a little longer. 

_No one_ drives his damn car. The first time Sam drove his damn car he rescued it from that crapped out parking lot in Illinois, because at the time Dean couldn’t leave Bobby’s without having a panic attack, and Sam _knows_ why the Impala is so important. Sam grew up with her, too. Cas may know enough to get some cute-as-hell keyring cut aged fourteen, but --- baby is his _home_. This one relic of his childhood that’s always been precious and good. 

“I hate everything,” Dean mutters. He’s back to shivery again which is just freaking perfect and has him pulling his dumbass blanket tighter over his shoulders to stop himself from _actually_ shaking, which would be even more humiliating than riding shotgun in his baby, in a blanket. “You hurt her, I will hunt you down.”

“Yes, you’re very intimidating,” Cas says, with another of those _fond_ looks, before he looks back at the wheel and sizes it up. He almost goes to turn over the engine before he stops himself, glancing back at the rearview mirror with a deliberately still expression.

“You’re nervous,” Dean says, a sloshy anxiety joining the bone-deep-cold. “Awesome.”

“Dean.” Cas says, sending him a look. 

“Can you stop? It’s making me antsy.”

“ _You_ stop,” Castiel counters, whip-fast, “ _You_ are making me nervous.”

“She’s --- _just a car_ ,” Dean says, with deliberate effort. He’s lying through his teeth, obviously, but it’s not _Cas’_ fault that they’re in this situation. He’s been nothing but freaking perfect, so Dean could probably stand to _try_ and be helpful, even if his head is pounding and he feels more like an abandoned sock-puppet than actual human.

“Is this this Dean Winchester equivalent of _halluciating_?” Cas asks, “Should I call a doctor?”

“Shut up and drive,” Dean says, which is apparently enough for Cas to _finally_ turn the key and put her into reverse. Dean tries not to wince as Cas makes a stuttery start out of the gate, because it’s not _actually_ his fault --- baby’s a helluva lot more sensitive than Cas’ car, which is a big hunk of junk that has to be manhandled into driving smoothly -- and because Dean remembers how much he hated his Dad’s backseat driving shit, but it takes physical effort.

“I’m sorry you’re sick,” Cas says, once they’ve pulled onto the highway and Dean’s feeling a bit better (about Cas driving rather than physically, because the rush of energy that came from the painkillers is beginning to wane). Cas has settled into it a bit. Relaxed.

“Both hands on the wheel, Sunshine.”

“ _This_ , from you,” Cas says, dutifully returning to the kind of nine and three position that driver’s ed teachers dream of, “I didn’t know you were _aware_ you’re supposed to drive with both hands.”

“Life’s a bitch,” Dean mutters, head throbbing. 

“How are you feeling?”

“Crappy,” Dean says, “Just --- keep me awake.”

“Dean,” Cas says, “If you need to sleep…”

“Nope,” Dean says, “If this is how we go down, I wanna be conscious. And by we, I mean me and my baby.”

“You are _absurd_ ,” Cas returns, gaze fixed very deliberately on the road. “I’m going to give up my lease on my apartment.” 

“What?” Dean says, “Cas, know I said I _hated_ , it but ---”

“ --- it’s not that,” Cas says, “It’s _too far away_ from you.”

“An hour.” Dean counters, even though he doesn’t exactly _disagree_. He’s never hated a stretch of road as much as the one between their apartments, because it’s _a pain in the ass_. He didn’t know a sixty minute drive could ever feel so freaking inconvenient. 

“That’s too far,” Cas says, with the kind of conviction that Dean wishes he was brave enough to say out loud, straight off the bat. “Twice this week I’ve been subjected to this _hateful_ distance when I just wanted to be at your apartment. I rented it because it’s near a job I no longer have. I don’t want to be there.” Cas says, “I could get a place that’s near _you_ and the soup kitchen.”

This would probably be a good time to venture the _living together_ concept, but ---

\--- That stuff he said to Sam about timing is still true. It’s _still_ gonna seem like this is some reactionary bullshit after Cas spent three days hiding from an argument, and Dean doesn’t wanna cheapen any of these important parts of their relationship. They _had_ the conversation about how Dean gets insecure about the idea of people leaving him which is probably only going to underpin the point, more. He’s not great at any of this stuff, but he _wants_ to be romantic and thoughtful about it, rather than bringing it up on a day when he’s thrown up in Cas’ freaking ensuite. 

And most lease agreements ask for you to commit for at least _some_ period of time at the beginning. Dean had to sign up for at least six months and, okay, maybe _this week_ isn’t the right time to have a conversation about moving in together, but _six months_ is a damn away. 

Clearly, Cas isn’t thinking about it, so what the hell does _that_ mean?

And Dean’s head is freaking _killing_ him.

“I, uh,” Dean begins, tightening the blanket around his shoulders, “Think I do need to sleep, man.”

“Okay,” Cas says, glancing at him in the rearview mirror with his _mother henning_ look, before he reaches forward and turns on Dean’s metallica cassette tape quiet enough that it’s an almost-lullaby. “I’ll be good to your car.”

“Yeah,” Dean exhales, because he _knows_ that really, because Cas is good to everything. 

* 

The thing is _life isn’t a fucking disney movie_ , Dean decides, when he wakes up on Tuesday morning after another ten hour stint of sleeping like he’s just ran a marathon. He feels marginally less like crap than yesterday, but only enough that he thinks he can probably manage to make it to the sofa before the fatigue creeps back up on him. Dean _detests_ being sick, but at least last night he felt just about alive enough to shower (even if Cas had to half-carry him back to bed after which was pretty damn embarrassing, so the less said about it the better) so he’s not a hundred percent disgusting right now. Just about thirty percent.

“Hey,” Dean says, slumping down on the edge of the sofa with his dressing gown wrapped around him, and pressing his phone into Cas’ hands. Cas had been pretty clear that he has no intention of going back to his volunteering stuff until Dean can stay awake for more than five hours of a time (‘what’s the _point_ of not having contractual employment if I can’t look after you when you’re sick’) so Dean’s not exactly _surprised_ to find his pyjama-clad ass on the end of his sofa. He’d been counting on it.

“What ---” Cas begins, taking Dean’s phone and frowning at him, “This is an email confirming a dinner reservation for last Tuesday.”

“Yep.”

“Why am I looking at this?”

“Because,” Dean says, “That’s when I was gonna ask you to move in with me, before we had that fight.” 

Castiel cocks his head and looks at him.

He probably should have waited until the drugs kicked in before starting this conversation, but… Cas has been _looking at apartments_ when ninety percent of his clothes live in Dean’s wardrobe and, okay, it’s not _perfect_ , because Dean’s having his ass kicked by this maybe-flu (Cas has been pretty adamant about it, but he’s only just started feeling it in his chest today and he mostly always figured that flu was a cold with bad PR, and this feels like someone’s drained half his life essence out of his freaking brain in his sleep. Whatever it is, it _sucks_ ) while Cas plays nurse rather than dealing with his life, and then there was that fight, and there’s _Alastair_ and the rest of their messy history. 

“Was gonna be a whole _dinner_ thing, but you’ve been looking at apartments,” Dean says, “And, you wanna live closer. Living here would be pretty close. Same problem, different solution.”

“Yes,” Cas says, “If this is you asking me to move in with you, then the answer is yes.”

“I am,” Dean says, his forehead creasing as he frowns, but the guy has got a point. Dean didn’t _actually_ ask. He just fumbled around the topic like an asshole. “Badly, looks like.”

“Where are we going to put my plant?” 

“Coffee table,” Dean says, “Only logical place.”

“I’m going to kiss you now,”

“Wouldn’t recommend it,” Dean says, “If this thing is contagious, it’s a real bitch, and I’m still pretty gross.”

“Don’t care,” Cas says, leaning forward to kiss him, brief and simple, somehow turning the movement into taking his temperature. “You’re still warm.”

“M’ tried,” Dean says, “Little better, though.”

“Good,” Cas says, “I found a spin off to that TV show.”

“This flu better kill me,” Dean says, settling on the sofa with his legs casually thrown over Cas’ lap, “Cause there’s no way in hell I’m watching a _spin off_.”

“It’s about Ronnie’s ex-husband.”

“Uh -- -fine,” Dean says, shutting his eyes, “Put it on.”

“I love you,” Cas says, because he does that sometimes. Spontaneous outpouring of affection. “I would love to live with you.”

“Good,” Dean throws back, smiling slightly at the TV for no real fucking reason, because _Castiel Milton_ his freaking gorgeous, tea-making, soup-cooking saint of a boyfriend wants to live with him, even when Dean’s sick and pathetic. 

He gets caught mentally caught up on something Sam said an episode and a half later --- and _this_ is much, much worse than the regular show, and is the definite new winner for the crappiest TV Dean has sat through for Castiel’s sake --- running over that Friday night conversations a few times before he works up the strength to _say anything_. “Cas, you --- you _ever_ gonna get a job? Don’t mean it like that,” Dean says, as Cas frowns at him, “I mean, don’t get me wrong, my rent’s gotta be a third of the place of your fancy digs and --- not like I can’t cover it, but if you’re living here we’d probably split it, but you don’t get a paycheque and just…. How long can you cover it before you gotta work?”

“A long time,” Cas says, with that almost-wary expression.

“ _How_ long?”

“Does this matter?”

“Kinda,” Dean says, “If we’re talking --- long term. Permanent. Living together.”

“Dean, you will _freak_ on me.”

“Pinky promise I won’t,” Dean says, lamely holding out his left arm until it takes too much freaking energy to hold it up. “You _told_ me you went through your freaking accounts last week. So, _how much_ , Cas?”

“Approximately two and a half million.”

_Holy shit_. Holy-freaking-shit. That’s Cas’ _post Crowley_ bank balance, which means Dean definitely doesn’t want to know how much he lost by signing some blank check for the asshole. Cas is a fucking _millionaire_ , who nags him into drinking shitty herbal tea and watches TV shows about rich people who own cats.

“Dean.”

“A _really_ long damn time, then,” Dean says, “Okay.”

“Dean,” Cas says again, looking all _concerned_ , which wasn’t the point. He doesn’t want Cas to _worry about this stuff_ when… when it doesn’t actually matter. He does _know_ that, intellectually, but… two and a half million is a _lot_ of money.

“Cas,” Dean says, tangling their fingers together and turning back to the show, “This is the kind of bad that’s _unwatchable_.” 

"Do you want any more tea?"

"Never wanted tea in my damn life," Dean mutters, shutting his eyes because he's tired and safe and because it's better than watching Cas' TV show.

Of course, Cas makes him another cup of tea anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Dean does not have coronavirus, because stupid covid is not a thing in this universe.
> 
> This is the last of the between Beach House & Beach House in Winter chapters, so we'll be fastforwarding a bit.
> 
> Also, long chapter is long.


	9. New York

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~~heavy content ahead~~~

Gabriel’s New York apartment is _very Gabriel_ ; dripping with excess and the ridiculous in equal measure, feeling more _expensive novelty hotel suite_ than home. As far as Castiel has been able to work out, Gabriel generally treats it more like a hotel than a home, anyway. If Dean were here, he’d probably comment on the lack of photos and fridge magnets, although it certainly has more of the personal-touch than Castiel’s apartment used to. He can’t imagine anyone else using a set of those awful massage chairs as _dining chairs_ , or only have glassware with scantily dressed women on. Gabriel is _absurd_ , which is part of the reason it is absurd that Dean sent him here.

“If your guest bed vibrates, I am checking into a hotel.” 

“Hello to you too, Cassie,” Gabriel says, “Welcome to Casa Erotica.” 

“Please stop.”

“No can do, little brother,” Gabriel throws back cheerily, leading up through the apartment, “This is your room.” He continues, leading him into a _surprisingly tolerable_ second bedroom. Castiel would hazard a guess that this is the only room that Gabriel hasn’t changed since he purchased the place several months ago, because it’s very clean, sharp and warm neutral tones. Very New York real estate.“You wanna _de-plane_ before we let the good times roll.”

“I need to call Dean,” Castiel frowns.

“Okaay,” Gabriel says cheerfully, “I’ve just got one question for you: casino, strip club or both?”

“I’m unable to respond to that politely before I’ve had coffee,” Castiel says, dropping his bag next to the bed and sitting down heavily. “Please give me five minutes.”

“Roger that,” Gabriel says, offering him a salute, “The coffee will be out there when you’re ready.”

“Thank you,” Castiel sighs, turning his phone over in his hands and taking it off flight mode. He’s got several messages from Dean but none of them quenches the low-level anxiety that’s been undercutting every moment of the past few weeks, the last reminding him to call him when he landed like Castiel isn’t ever-aware of Dean’s persistent nagging worry about all things to do with aircraft. The others are Dean monologing at him about whether Castiel finished the last of the good coffee - which he did and doesn’t feel the slightest bit guilty about, given that Dean labelled the coffee 'pretentious hipster bullshit’ and then started to drink it like it was water - and a statement calling into question his status as ‘good boyfriend’ given said consumption of good coffee. It’s very _domestic_ and very Dean, but none of them give any indication of the fact that Dean has spent three nights this week watching cartoons rather than attempting to sleep and refused company on the final two. 

“Hello Dean,” Castiel says, after Dean has answered on the second ring.

“Flight okay?”

“Yes,” Castiel says, “Fine. I’m at Gabriel’s.”

“That’s not _calling when you land_ , dude.”

“I just turned my phone back on,” Castiel says, gaze fixed on the wall opposite. There’s a large square canvas which contains nothing but three coloured semicircles which Castiel doesn’t understand. The colours are pleasing, but the positioning of the semicircles is unfathomable. “Gabriel was waiting for me at the gate with a car. How are you?”

“Peachy.”

“Dean.”

“I’m okay,” Dean says impatiently. He’s been irritable for the last few days (although Castiel hasn’t been much better, given he started an argument about listening to Led Zeppelin and said something unnecessarily sharp about the _’lumberjack look’_ that Dean waved off when Castiel later tried to apologise), so Castiel isn’t exactly _surprised_ that Dean is being dismissive. “Yeah, this sucks, but I’m —- I’m alright. Quit worrying about me.”

“Be reasonable.”

“Okaay, give yourself a _worrying about me_ break and have a good few days with Gabriel. That’s the whole damn point of you flying out there.” Dean says, with enough insistent confidence about it that it sparks off that familiar frustration with the man. Yes, Dean is the love of his life, but he is entirely _maddening_. Dean has been _annoying_ him since he was twelve.

“I thought the _point_ was you banishing me.” Castiel says, standing up and beginning to pace the corner of Gabriel’s room. 

“Cas, I didn’t make you go,” Dean says, which is _ridiculous_. Dean did not make him go by gunpoint, but he _did_ contact Gabriel and half-arrange this weekend before he even suggested it to Castiel. He _was_ so blindly positive and insistent about it that he didn’t really give room for Castiel to argue, which is _exactly_ the kind of thing that would have him in the dog house if Castiel attempted it. It certainly _felt_ like he was being chased out of his own home, under this idiotic notion that Castiel would worry less if he had some space.

He is not _less_ worried about Dean right now, because he isn’t there. He can’t see him or touch him, which he’s found are excellent ways to ease the worry or fear that sometimes settles under his ribs. He can barely help anyway and he _definitely_ can’t help from here. 

“Didn’t you?” 

“Cas,” Dean says, voice melting into that soft, _’I love you and have your best interests at heart_ ’ that usually makes Castiel’s return argument die in his throat, but he is _tired_ and he wants to fix this and he can’t and _Dean won’t even let him try_. That does not help with his worry. “I’ve dealt with this before. I’m a big boy. You barely saw your brother that weekend. I’m not _making_ you stay out there, but — seems like it would be good for you.”

It’s infuriatingly _Dean_ to do something that is theoretically sweet and incredibly annoying and…. mostly, Castiel wants to be able to curl up on the sofa with his boyfriend and smoother all of his worries and concerns into Dean’s skin, but instead he has been exiled to New York to ‘spend time with his family’ like Gabriel isn’t frustrating and likely to dig into things that Castiel has no interest in talking about which, incidentally, is _also_ Dean’s fault, given he’s the one who decided to tell Anna and Gabriel about his personal history on a whim. Except, he’s _not_ really mad at Dean, because he is too engulfed by too many other feelings for the frustration to creep in: the _worry_ and the affection and the fact that he is crazy about the man.

“Why do you get to make decisions about what's good for me?”

Or --- he is. He _is_ mad at him, but he does not _want_ to be. He doesn’t _want_ to be mad at him, he just wants to _be with him_.

“Because you’re stubborn and I’m in love with you.” Dean says.

It’s _ridiculous_ that after nine months the words _’ I love you’_ still have the combative effect of bursting the balloon of frustration in his lungs.

It’s _one weekend_.

Castiel could have had this argument with him at home, rather than waiting until he’d already taken the flight to start debating whether he should be here. He’d _wanted to_ , but… he’d foolishly buried his grievance in an attempt not to make things more difficult, or cause anymore arguments, while spilling out passive aggression and petty grievances instead. He knows that Dean, bullish and absurd, believes that this will somehow help, and Castiel never actually explained why _it didn’t_.

It’s not really Dean’s fault he feels like this.

“I love you too.” Castiel says, resigned to it, sitting down at the other edge of the bed and letting the weight of his post-frustration-lull settle over his shoulders.

“Well then,” Dean says, voice almost-soft, “I’ll see you in a couple of days.”

“Fine,” Castiel returns, even though nothing is _fine_ right now. Nothing has been _fine_ for the last few weeks, everything has been hard and complicated and confusing and fraught with far too many emotions for Castiel to be able to keep track of them.

“Go hang out with your brother,” Dean says, “Although you gotta tell me what his new place looks like.”

“It looks like it’s primary purpose is to film porn,” Castiel says, “And there is modern art in my bedroom and I don’t know what it means.”

“Send me a picture, I’ll decipher it for you.”

“Allright,” Castiel says, “Gabriel has made coffee.”

“Go,” Dean says, warm now. Voice _easy and light_ , like everything is uncomplicated. “I’ll be fine.”

“Okay,” Castiel says, staring at his phone for a few long moments after Dean has hung up to gather the strength to deal with Gabriel, who reliably has Castiel’s best interests at heart, but is generally very exuberant at expressing that. He _is_ exhausting, even if he’s the closest family Castiel has these days.

It is not _unreasonable_ for Dean to think involving Gabriel is a good idea, but it is probably misguided.

Before he leaves the bedroom, Castiel tracks down and orders Dean’s favourite variety of the ‘pretentious hipster bullshit’ coffee and pays extra for next-day delivery, because there’s an outside chance that the gesture will make Dean smile and that’s always a worthy goal, especially at the moment.

*

To Gabriel’s credit, he doesn’t mention anything to do with Dean, or their father, or how they left things at the Beach House in March until after Gabriel has taken him to one of Castiel’s favourite New York restaurant for an excellent dinner and taken him to a bar that seems entirely too-classy for his brother, and Castiel has shed a little of the tension he’s been carrying round and settled into the evening.

“Say it,” Castiel says, finally, taking a sip of his cocktail — some variant of a margarita that is exceptional — and frowning at his brother. It’s slightly unnerving to fit back into his old New York life, where he guiltlessly spent more than half of his current rent in a single evening on drinks and food (he is opting _not_ to think about what Dean would think about it, given Dean still raises his eyebrows and pointedly doesn’t say anything whenever Castiel tips), but it is more unnerving for Gabriel to practice restraint and consideration and Castiel to be _waiting_ for him to bring things up he’d usually bulldoze into. These places aren’t what he’d generally associate with his brother: Gabriel _can_ be at home in a bar that charges thirty five dollars for a glass of champagne and that plays live jazz with low, warm lights and a beautiful view of the New York skyline, but he’d genuinely rather be somewhere with strippers and purple shots, even if he has a distinct talent at finding the ‘high class’ variation that somehow costs out the same. It’s good of Gabriel to take him to a place that Castiel actually likes rather than half-bullying him into ‘fun’, but it’s _unexpected_. “Whatever you want to say, say it.”

“Look…. Dean was supposed to make you happy,” Gabriel says, “And, okay, you looked pretty mushy for a couple of months there, but now...”

“I am not unhappy, Gabriel.” 

“You’ve spent most of your life convincing yourself that _not unhappy_ is the same as being happy, Cassie.”

“The man I love is in pain.” 

“I know, he told us.”

“He didn’t need to do that.” Castiel says, frowning at his drink. He’s successfully avoided speaking to Gabriel about this for the last month. He knew the statute of limitations of that silence was going to expire this weekend, because Gabriel was far too obliging about all the arrangements. He offered for Castiel to _stay_ at his apartment, which he’s never one before. 

He doesn’t know how to have a conversation about this with another person. 

“Well, _he_ wants you to be happy too.” Gabriel returns.

“I am able to manage my own emotions.”

“Well _that’s_ hilarious. You’ve never been able to handle your emotions, let alone your emotions about Dean.”

“Is pointing out my character flaws supposed to be helpful?” Castiel deadpans.

“That’s not a _flaw,_ Cassie, it’s just part of who you are. Talk to me about Dean.”

“I don’t _want to._ ” Castiel spits out, shoulders hunched. 

“Castiel, if you keep obsessing over some psycho cutting him up —” 

“— I don’t obsess over that, Gabriel, I ‘obsesses’ over him being raped and murdered.” Castiel cuts back, sharp and emotional and _too honest_ and --- this is why he didn’t want to talk about this with Gabriel, or _anyone_ , because his feelings _spill everywhere_ , ugly and inconvenient --- and its only just true. He _wasn’t_ obsessing over any of it. They’d reached a tentative equilibrium and Castiel thought everything was going _very well_. He’s been happier in the past six months than he’d ever been before and then Dean said he thought _Alastair might kill him_ if he didn’t do exactly what he wanted, falling apart at the seems in his arms, and he told him about _pretending he was dead_ \--- and then, and _then_ , it slipped back into the raw, emotional whirlwind. Of thinking about Jason Bryers under a patio. Of thinking about Dean’s happy place being _death_ , of Alastair hurting him, of pain and fear and grit and _blood_ and pain, and sex.

_And Dean needs him to stop_. 

\---- and, also, Castiel _doesn’t use that word_ , even if Dean is tentatively started to enter it into his vernacula --- with his almost off-hand comments about researching an appropriate domestic abuse and rape support group --- but Castiel was determined that _unless Dean said it_ , Castiel would not. He wasn’t _there_. He doesn’t know. He can’t _take the word_ back, now and --- 

This is why Castiel didn’t want to talk about this. 

Gabriel exhales. 

“Was that —- plausible?” Gabriel asks and… Castiel is more sure than he’s ever been of the answer, because the gritty horrors that Dean peeled out of his gut at the Beach House and since then have all been confirmations of Castiel’s worst nightmares. Mostly, it was _worse_ than he’d expected, although maybe that’s just the reality of hearing Dean actually talk about it, of seeing the pain of it all slipping through the cracks, of Dean _tired_ and vulnerable and frustrated, with his grip on all of it slipping. Dean _felt_ the threat; Alastair backed it up with a bloody backstory and two young, innocent men buried in his patio. It is _entirely plausible_ that this story could have ended differently, but…he doesn’t have it within him to say the words out loud. 

_He can’t_. 

Gabriel has a law degree and a very poor respect for personal boundaries. There’s very little point trying to back out of the conversation now he’s already spilled his emotional guts, because Gabriel can and will find out anway. Part of him is surprised that he hadn’t done it already, given Dean told him part of the story. It’s _uncharacteristically_ sensitive of him to wait for Castiel’s cue, which means he _should_ tell him, but ---

He can’t do it. He _can’t_ , so he pulls up the article about Alastair’s incineration for muder on his phone --- he’s only read it three times, which he considered to be remarkable self-restrained considering the content, but he still finds it very quickly -- and pushing his phone in Gabriel’s direction. 

Watching Gabriel read it --- _evidence of sustained injuries compatible with previous convictions_ \-- isn’t really any better than talking about it, so Castiel focuses on running this thumb along the edge of the salt ring on his glass so he doesn’t have to watch the changes in his expression.

He doesn’t feel _better_ for it being said out loud. It feels like he’s somehow stained his lips with it; this ugly truth that he _isn’t supposed to acknowledge_ , because it’s dark and painful, and now it has more power. It is _known_.

“There a reason you haven’t got this shmuck extradited some place they have the death penalty?” Gabriel asks, pushing Castiel’s phone back in his direction with his mouth set. 

“I am not a member of the _mafia,_ Gabriel. I am not arranging Dean’s ex to be whacked.” 

“Okay firstly, that sentence is hilarious, second of all, we’re talking about Dean’s safety.” 

“He is in a maximum security prison, I am not concerned about what Alastair _could do,_ I am much more preoccupied with that he _has done._ ” Castiel says sharply. “And I am not _wading into_ any legal repercussions against that vermin, like some vengeful hammer —- that is not what Dean needs. He didn’t even _know_ about these murder chargers.” 

“So, that’s —- that’s what your little argument at the beach house was about. _Fucking murder charges._ ”

“We were not having an argument.” Castiel says, glaring at his drink. He didn’t really sleep on any of the nights Dean spent on the sofa. The first they resumed their quasi-normal nightmare routine, of watching TV curled up on the sofa and Dean insisting that he doesn’t want any tea, but the latter nights Dean insisted that Castiel _‘stay in bed, least one of us should get some damn sleep’,_ looking pale and drawn and slightly shaky. He _stayed_ in bed as instructed, but he didn’t really sleep. He just kept thinking about Jason Bryers and Dean and Alastair and their attempts to gain ground on _sex_ , which has turned out to be much more complicated and delicate than anticipated. Castiel is tired. He’s been tired for weeks and he was tired when he caught the flight and he’s _tired now_ , but --- but there's no getting out of his conversation. 

“Smelt like an argument.”

“Gabriel,” Castiel says sharply, “Yes, that’s the reason he spoke to you.”

“But not the reason you argued.” 

“ _We did not argue_.”

“Okay, Cassie,” Gabriel says, holding his hands out in mock surrender. “You didn’t argue. Wowza.”

“I —- it’s not a topic _to_ argue about.”

“Money or sex? Cause I’m guessing money.”

“ _Gabriel._.”

“Okay, it’s about sex.” Gabriel says, with a triumphant look that makes punching his brother in the face seem very appealing. He’s entirely sure that it would be a productive use of this rootless frustration at the world that he’s been trying not to direct at Dean. He thinks he’d feel _much better_ in the short term, even if it isn’t fair after Gabriel has taken him out for drinks and dinner and has made a token attempt at tidying his apartment so Castiel can stay.

“It is _about_ Dean having flashbacks of traumatic events that happened in his life.”

“About sex.”

“Do you have _no sensitivity_?” 

“I’m not saying this _to Dean_.” 

“If you _dared_ to speak to Dean about this —-” Castiel begins, with a venomous rage twisting up his windpipe without warning. 

“—- Cassie,” Gabriel says, cutting him off, “I think what you really need, is another drink.” 

“Allright,” Castiel concedes, because —- yes, alcohol sounds good. Technically, he drank more than his share of the bottle of wine Gabriel ordered at dinner and he hasn’t finished his current drink, but… more alcohol sounds _very appealing_.

“Drink up,” Gabriel says, waggling his eyebrows in the direction of the waitress. Castiel twists his glass round his fingers to get to part of the glass where the salt ring is intact and drains the last of his margarita as Gabriel orders another round of drinks and far too many shots to be advisable, but Castiel doesn’t really care. If he has to sit here and talk about all this -- much too far away from _Dean_ , who made him come here--- he might as well be drunk. 

He _does_ feel a little better after he’s tipped back two of the ‘best tequila shots you’ll ever have’ and watched Gabriel attempt to finish his awful cherry vodka long drink at a similar speed, like the sharp edges of his feelings have been smoothed over, eased over. Or at least it feels like he’s doing something satisfyingly unproductive with it, which is excellent. He’s been trying to be very _level headed_ with all his feelings, when mostly he would like to scream and maybe visit Alastair in prison to wring his neck, or _hide_ (but he _won’t_ do that to Dean; not this time). 

There’s _something_ about stopping trying to reason with his hateful emotions and shutting them up with tequila. 

“So, this stuff is heavy,” Gabriel says, slamming down his empty shot glass of tequila and assessing him. 

“Yes, it is _‘heavy’_.” Castiel agrees, because that’s the best description that has been used all night. The past few weeks have been _heavy_ and emotionally wrought and far too complicated. Castiel is entirely unqualified to deal with it and has _no idea what he’s doing_. He’s out of his depth, treading water, and trying to pretend that he’s _calm_ , because this is _happening to Dean, not Castiel_ and --- 

Dean once _told_ him he was a _‘a shaky fucking wreck of a human’_ in the aftermath, and Castiel couldn’t really imagine it. He’s always _seen_ Dean as this pillar of strength, even in moments when he was covering up vulnerabilities with hedonism and sharp-comments, because Castiel has always known the depths of which Dean has felt pain and kept going anyway, for the people he cares about. And it’s not like that’s _changed_ , because --- because Dean has more inner grit than anyone Castiel has ever met, he’s stubborn and bolshy and makes _terrible_ jokes in the face of dark, horrible truths --- but these past few weeks have been enough for Castiel to be able to _get a feel_ of what Dean would have been like, right after he was found. Skittish and tense and only half in the room. Not sleeping. Only saying half of what’s in his head and Castiel not knowing how to approach it, because _what do you say_ when someone has been that hurt?

He doesn’t know what you’re supposed to _say_ when, after a long, winding conversation about whether wading in is a _good idea_ , about triggers and panic attacks, the first time they’ve gotten _adjacent_ to sex since that night on the beach, Dean called it off in this awful, shaky voice and had a bad enough nightmare that he called into work sick the next day.

And, yes, _tequila helps_. Tequila loosens some of the vice-grip of worry on his lungs and makes it seem easier to keep talking than maintain his silence. 

“And.” Gabriel says, “He’s not —— depending on you, you know, psychologically.” 

“When was your last relationship, Gabriel?” Castiel asks, tipping back his final shot and setting the empty glass on the table, upside down. “Did they depend on you _psychologically_?”

“You know what I’m asking.”

“No, I am not Dean’s substitute therapist. Yes, I offer a degree of emotional support due to _being in a relationship with him_. He —- he neither expects or wants for me to be responsible for his mental well-being.” 

“He doesn’t _want_ you too?”

“You have _met_ Dean. How do you imagine he feels about needing anyone’s help?”

“Wait, so,” Gabriel says, “Is _this_ the reason for the co-dependent thing with little bro?”

“Please can you talk about this without sounding like you find it amusing?”

“Castiel,” Gabriel says, forehead creasing, taking on that always-unexpected serious expression. “I’m _not_ amused. This is fucking awful. I _like_ Dean. I hate that this happened to him, that any of this has been going through your head. Just trying to get you fucking talk about it.”

“I have talked about it.”

“ _With Dean_ ,” Gabriel says. “Doesn’t count, bucko.” 

“Gabriel.”

“You don’t have to watch your words with me, Cassie.” 

“I _don’t_ with my boyfriend —” 

“— don’t give me that shit,” Gabriel says, “You gave me the sensitivity lecture and now I’m saying, that’s why it’s different. So _drop_ the sensitive boyfriend act and talk about what’s happening.”

“I need more alcohol.”

“Can do, bro,” Gabriel says, pushing his own final tequila shot in Castiel’s direction and signalling to the waitress. It’s probably inadvisable --- he hasn’t drank this much for a very long time and he’s sure the last shots haven’t hit him yet --- but he doesn’t really care about being _sensible_ right now. He is ---- _out of his depth_ and slightly lost and he doesn’t know what he’s doing, and Dean sent him away for the weekend. It’s _two nights_ , so he shouldn’t care, but Castiel has never been very good at feeling what he _should_ feel. His emotions have always been unruly and uncooperative to his will and _alcohol_ eases something of the heavy, emotional pressure. “So Dean’s…. having flashbacks.” 

“Yes,” Castiel acknowledges, taking the shot and eyeing it up. Agreeing is easy and harmless enough and… and Dean _intended_ for him to talk to Gabriel, in his grand master plan where he showed Gabriel his scars on a whim and sent Castiel to New York. He is _just fulfilling Dean’s wishes_ which, fine. Castiel is a good boyfriend (generally, these last few weeks aside); he orders the nice coffee and calls only slightly later than promised, he finds Dean’s music taste endearing most of the time and tolerable the rest, and he can talk to his brother about his boyfriend’s psychological scars _if that makes him happy_.

And --- yes. The shots were a mistake. He regrets the shots. 

“About sex.” 

“Yes,” Castiel agrees, because apparently now _he can’t stop_. “We —— discussed them for the first time at the Beach House.”

“You talked about flashbacks for the first time.” 

“ _These flashbacks,_.” Castiel corrects, “About _these_ experiences. He — he has nightmares, sometimes. We have talked about _those_ but —-”

“But not about,” Gabriel says, searching for the word. “Dean being sexually assaulted.”

Wonderful.

“As far as I am aware, he hadn’t contextualised it like that,” Castiel says.

“As assault?” Gabriel asks, “He showed us his scars.”

“He didn’t _hold him at knife point_ and explicitly threaten him,” Castiel says, although _maybe he did_. There’s probably still plenty Dean hasn’t told him, not out of choice exactly, but because Dean is still wading through the aftermath. And _of course he fucking is_ , because how could it not be? And yet, this still felt like a surprise. A big _missed the step_ moment, where there tentative domestic bliss was scattered into emotional chaos and Castiel is left trying to work out how to make Dean feel _loved_ and adored and like Castiel believes he’s the most incredible, precious human he’s ever had the pleasure of meeting, when Dean is struggling. Guarded. _Wounded_. “But they were sleeping together _parallel_ to him giving Dean those scars.” 

“How parallel?”

“ _Very parallel,_ ” Castiel says, running a thumb over the edge of the shot glass. He hates thinking about this (and there’s been _no choice_ lately, it’s gone from being something he sort of knew happened to something that impacts their everyday life), and talking about it isn’t better: it’s more real, spoken out loud in this beautiful bar, numbed with expensive tequila with the low thrum of Jazz. It’s too ugly thinking about _Dean being hurt_ in such a nice place. Jarring. “The same day, sometimes.”

“Did you know that?” 

“Unofficially.” Castiel says, grimly, and takes the final shot. It ---- 

It all feels much more _real_ on the other side of Dean curled up in his arms _crying_ and telling him that he thought he was going to die --- Castiel isn’t sure he will ever recover from that, not fully, because the piercing reality of how _cruel_ the world is sharpened itself into a point and pierced right through his pounding heart ---- but… but maybe that’s _selfish_. It’s because it’s _affecting Castiel’s life_ , now, whereas before it was this nebulous part of Dean’s history, mostly unacknowledged but sometimes peaking through, and now it is screaming for Dean’s attention, demanding his thoughts, asking to be _dealt with_.

(Castiel doesn’t know _how_. That’s the part that scares him. He knows that Dean is endlessly stronger than Castiel, because he’s already _dealt_ with so much of it with maturity and resilience and strength, but _how_ do you move past this? _How_ do you put it back into a box and live your life, without thinking about it, without it _costing you_? He ---- he has faith that Dean _can_ , it’s just… he doesn’t know how they get from here to there and how Castiel can _help_.)

“What does that mean?”

“I —— _suspected_.” Castiel says.

“Based on?”

“A thorough understanding of _who_ Dean is and reading between the lines ,” Castiel says, “He had a panic attack at Beach House.”

“In March?”

“During the summer.” 

“So you’ve _really_ known about this the whole time.”

“Dean didn’t hide this from me,” Castiel says, gaze fixed on his drink. Dean _told him_ that this could be difficult. He _told him_ that trauma was an earthquake. He told him that things were complicated. “He told me about everything before we were involved.”

“Not everything.” 

“Fine,” Castiel agrees, because… Gabriel isn’t _wrong_. This part of it wasn’t laid out and presented to him (even if it was implicit; he had enough information), but it wouldn’t have made a difference. It’s…. It’s not like _he wouldn’t choose_ to be cemented in the epicentre, desperately trying to be solid, reliable, dependable, because he would. He just wishes he knew _what he should be doing_. “He did not tell me _everything._.”

“He should’ve done,” Gabriel says, “Now you’re too involved to tap out.” 

“I was _never_ going to tap out,” Castiel says, coolly. “He told me everything he thought was relevant at the time.” 

“And he didn’t think this sexual assault stuff was relevant?” 

“I _think_ you’re oversimplifying a very complicated and emotive issue,” Castiel says, “And implying I should leave isn’t helpful, because I am not going to.”

“Look, I’m not saying this is Dean’s fault,” Gabriel says, “But someone’s gotta be looking out for your best interests, Cassie, and you’ve reliably sucked at that.” 

He wants to bite back a _I don’t care about my best interests_ because, really, he doesn’t. In the face of _Dean suffering_ , he does not care about his interests, but… it’s _unhelpful_ to declare his intentions like that. It’s the kind of thing that would have Dean making that _concerned face_ and valiantly trying to booster his self-esteem (Dean is good at it, too, at reframing Castiel’s flaws and mistakes like they’re good things; at pointing out that his internal-logic is not necessarily better than Dean’s faulty internal logic), when this isn’t really _about_ his view of himself, because it’s a false-dichotomy. There is no weighing up of _Castiel’s best interests_ and Dean, because he _loves him_ , passionately and completely, and Dean _loves him_ and makes him incredibly, idiotically content. 

Yes, he worries. _Yes_ , this has thrown off his equilibrium and gotten it’s hooks into Castiel’s happiness, seeping worry and fear into his life, but not _more_ than the jolt of rightness he feels whenever he sees his spider plant on Dean’s coffee table, or his Harvard Diploma propped up against the wall, or the picture of them on the fridge. It’s upsetting because it dilutes some of that joy, but it doesn’t _overtake it_ and ---

\---- he wishes he could be sure Dean knew and understood that. 

“Whatever Dean thinks, talking to you about this isn’t helpful.”

“Of course it’s not fucking helpful,” Gabriel throws back, “Cassie. I don’t have a fucking clue how a person begins to handle this, or have a conversation about it, which is why people talk to _trained trauma therapists_ to help, not their charming and successful big bros. Not trying to _help_ , I just wanna know what’s going on in my favourite brother’s life.”

“You’re not supposed to have favourite siblings.”

“That’s kids, pretty sure,” Gabriel says, “But we all know Daddy dearest had those too, so what the hell. Cassie --- _I love you_ and if you really just wanna get wasted and not talk about this, fine, but seriously --- can we drop the damn foreplay and you tell me the deal?”

“You’re my favourite too.” Castiel frowns, because it’s true. Talking about this with Gabriel is uncomfortable, but having this conversation with _any_ of the rest of his brothers would be unbearable. He could tolerate it with Anna or Hannah, but… Gabriel’s always been the most fun, the most relatable, the most emotional about things, even if he expresses that with bad jokes and running away and buying Castiel shots.

“I know,” Gabriel says, slapping the table and offering him a wink, “I need to piss.”

And ----

They’re _talking about Dean_ anyway and Gabriel has left him alone at this table, so it doesn’t feel completely anti-social to pull out his phone and text his boyfriend. It takes him three attempts to unlock it which is _bad news_ for Castiel’s sobriety (although, he probably _knew that_ , because he wouldn’t have said this much if he was still entirely control of his mouth) and brings up his last messages with Dean. He hasn’t had anything since Dean’s psychoanalysis of the painting in Gabriel’s bedroom — “it means your brother cries during sex and takes too much sugar is his coffee” — probably because Dean is determinedly _giving him space_ that Castiel does not actually want. 

He _hates_ space from Dean, even when he’s the one who enforces it. He _likes_ it best when he’s cozied up against Dean’s chest, talking about something domestic and mundane, with barely a hair width of space between them.

He types out an attempt at _‘don’t tell Gabriel, but you’re my actual favorite’_ that comes out a little wonky that he sends anyway because he doubts his ability to produce anything better and he suddenly _misses him_. Dean, with his opinions and his stubbornness and his bad ideas about going to New York and _space_ and wading in, like he hasn’t just begun to process that he was coerced into sex he didn’t want to have due to fear and the very real thread of physical pain. Dean can be very stupid sometimes, but it’s all rooted in determination and good intentions and trying to protect Castiel. 

He’s rewarded almost immediately by those three dots.

_‘You drunk??’_ Dean responds and Castiel smiles dumbly at his phone because, yes, he is drunk and Dean can read him very well. Also, he misspelt _favourite_ so perhaps Dean is just good at reading in general, but either way this is _Dean_.

He texts back a _’these are “the best tequila shots you’ll ever have” and, additionally, I love you’_ because that’s factually accurate on both accounts. It was very good tequila, even if he probably shouldn’t have drank it, because ---

Dean is _worried about him too_. That’s why Castiel has been exiled to New York for his own wellbeing, because Dean is _concerned_ and drowning his damnable emotions in very expensive alcohol is probably not the ideal way to _lessen_ Dean’s worry and… and Dean has enough things to be worried about without _Castiel_ , but there’s nothing to be done. He can’t un-drink any of it now. 

_Back at ya, hot stuff. And HOW many shots?_ Dean replies, because he is lovely. ‘Hot stuff’ isn’t his favourite of the affectionate pet names that fall off his tongue, but he still likes it. It’s still very Dean. 

_Pleading the 5th. This number is in no way related to the number of shots I have drunk_ Castiel sends, which he thinks he’s a pretty good joke. _You want me to to talk to Gabriel about my feelings._

There’s a longer gap this time, with Castiel staring down those three dots. They disappear twice and Castiel is still waiting by the time that Gabriel reappears and sits down. _What I WANT is for you to be sickeningly happy all the damn time, but that’s not a reasonable expectation for right now. I’ll take you having a good night, or talking to someone about your feelings, or you just getting some freaking sleep. We can talk properly when you get home._

He doesn’t really know why that message suddenly makes him want to cry, but it does, and he turns his phone back over and faces down the table and —

“— awh, hell, Cassie,” Gabriel says, mouth twisted into sympathetic. 

“There are no Casinos,” Castiel says, pocketing his phone, “And I am _not_ going to a strip club, but we can go somewhere else. Ideally somewhere loud.” 

“Okay,” Gabriel says, because he is a good brother sometimes, “Loud it is.” 

*

Castiel has never hated anything with as much venom and passion as he hates his _damnable phone_ , with it’s incessant _noise making_ when it is very clearly too early to be alive. It is _shrill_ , grating on every nerve in his head as it _rings_ , and rings, this hateful instrument of torture and pain. 

He hits _answer_ to shut it off, before slamming his eyes shut again and sincerely regretting moving because, god, he feels awful. Like his insides have been removed by an ice cream scoop, shaken up with pieces of shattered glass and then carelessly sloped back into his body. One of the metaphorical shards of glass has pierced right the way through his left eye. 

“Morning handsome.”

He’s never been so unhappy to hear Dean’s voice. 

“No,” Castiel complains, wedging the pillow under his head and trying to stay very still so as to not aggravate his glass-wound-headache.

“”Just checkin’ if you’re alive.”

This _isn’t_ alive by any definition that Castiel understands it. 

“No.” Castiel says again.

“You got any other words available.”

“ _No_.”

“Awesome,” Dean says, bright and airy and _far too loud_. He sounds _amused_ and very loud about it, while Castiel mostly just feels hollowed out and delicate and _in pain_. He’s brain has been directly replaced by a headache and —

—- why did he drink so much? Why? And, no, thinking about _that_ — about tequila shots and beer —- is not helpful for his current predicament. 

“Why aren’t you letting me sleep?” Castiel croaks out, “You claim to love me.”

“Good to know you’re not being dramatic, sweetheart.” Dean says, “And for the record, it’s nearly noon, and you need to drink some damn water.” 

“Hmm. No moving.”

“Cas,” Dean says, “Hydrate.”

“It would be much easier to lie here and die.”

“Well _then_ who's gonna take me out for steak on Tuesday night?” 

“We’re going out for steak on Tuesday?”

“Yup,” Dean says, “If someone puts their big boy pants and drinks some damn water.”

Castiel makes a noise which he hopes demonstrates his distaste of this condition as he sits up, slowly, and opens his eyes again. It’s a little better now that there is no loud, incessant noise and… he feels very _delicate_ , but his metaphorical-glass-wound in his head doesn’t shatter and miraculously, there is a glass of water on the bedside table.

“I have regrets,” Castiel says, after he’s sipped half a glass of water and shut his eyes again. 

“Uhuh,” Dean says, “Look man, pretty sure the drinking half a damn a liquor store for a night off was overdue. Hell, if it didn’t make my dumbass brain worse, I’d be right with you.”

“I thought we were going to talk about this when I’m home.”

“We are,” Dean says, “But, my experience, bad hangovers and self-hatred are pretty good friends —- so forget being hard on yourself, get some painkillers, eat some food and just, don’t worry about it.” 

“Dean, it feels like something died in my mouth. I’m not _twenty two_ , I shouldn’t be drinking shots like a frat boy.”

“ _Frat boy Cas_ , now that’s fucking hialrious. Look, not saying this is in the _well adjusted persons handbook for the ideal way to deal_ , but it’s pretty normal.” Dean says, “Go brush your teeth and turn your baby blues on Gabe, till he makes your pathetic ass some breakfast.” 

“Not everyone is as affected by my _baby blues_ as you.”

“Good,” Dean says, “Love you, man.”

“Yes,” Castiel agrees, shutting his eyes again, “That.”

He takes a few moments after Dean’s hung up to finish the rest of his water. 

“Hello,” Castiel says, gingerly picking his way across Gabriel’s apartment and sitting down at the breakfast bar, where at least there's no chance of being assaulted by his chair. “Are you,” Castiel begins, stopping when Gabriel presents him with coffee --- God bless Gabriel --- and frowning at it. He can already smell toast, which means that his brother is officially the greatest individual on the planet. 

“Thank you.” 

“How are you doing there, champ?”

“Why aren’t you hungover and sad?”

“Uh, cause I stopped drinking a _long_ time before you,” Gabriel says, “You up to bacon?”

“Dean tells me bacon is always a good idea.”

“He ain't wrong,” Gabriel says. “Painkillers.”

“Why are you being so nice to me?” Castiel asks, assessing the drugs and his coffee, unsure whether his stomach will tolerate either yet. In the long term, he’s aware that both will help, but right now he’s still working on the water. 

He’s unclear if he has _ever_ been this hungover. He didn’t really know it was possible to _feel_ this pathetic -- queasy and headachey and vulnerable -- or why anyone would ever drink this much, or at all. Alcohol is _a terrible_ thing. He hates alcohol. 

“Let’s think,” Gabriel says, “You _remember_ all of last night, Cassie?”

“Yes,” Castiel says, taking an experimental sip of coffee and resting his poor, aching head on the palm of his hands, “You ordered Tequila and said alcohol was my friend, which was a lie.”

“I’m talking about the bit where you _cried_.”

And _yes_ , he has a vague, foggy memory of that now that Gabriel mentions it. They weren’t particularly delicate tears, either. He broke down and sobbed. 

“Well that is…. humiliating.”

“No, it’s not,” Gabriel says, shutting the grill shut with his hip and offering Castiel a slice of toast. “What’s a crying jag between bros?”

“Something I’d rather not talk about.” Castiel says, ripping off part of his toast and eating it, slowly. 

“Nope,” Gabriel says, “That’s how we _end up here_ , Cassie. On the other side of _eight_ shots of tequila and a list of other crap I can’t remember.”

“Please don’t talk about tequila,” 

“Only because I don’t wanna clean up if you chuck up your guts.” 

“You have a cleaner.”

“She doesn’t do impromptu vomit calls,” Gabriel says, “I know, I asked. Look --- give yourself a break. Like you said, the man you love is in pain.”

“Yes, I am sure _this_ is very helpful for him.”

“You don’t exist to be _helpful_ for Dean,” Gabriel says, “No one thinks that, _especially_ not Dean.”

Castiel takes a moment to run those words over his head, because there’s something about the confidence with which he declares Dean’s opinion which is unsettling and --- 

“You ---- you’ve spoken to Dean.”

“Yup,” Gabriel says, “He made it clear that if I let you die of alcohol poisoning, he’d be holding me responsible .” 

“Wonderful.” Castiel mutters, taking another slice of toast. “I’ll be fine, Gabriel. Things are just --- complicated, currently.”

“I know,” Gabriel says, “Look Cassie --- I know I can be a bit of a douche sometimes, but I _am_ here for you and… _so_ is bacon.” He continues, turning off the grill and piling bacon onto his plate, “So eat up, because once you look a little less green, we’re headed on to New Jersey to see Samandriel and the tykes, because I know you miss them.”

He _does_ miss them. It was much easier to see them when he was regularly flying to New York for work (it’s the only part he actually _misses_ about his old job) and it’s… unexpectedly kind of Gabriel to arrange it, given that Gabriel generally tries to duck that kind of family commitment. 

“Gabriel, I think I’m too hungover to deal with children.” Castiel says, tentatively taking a bite of bacon. 

“Those are _good_ painkillers,” Gabriel says, tapping the edge of the packet.

“Are they,” Castiel says, taking the packet and turning it over in his hands. He’s drunk half a cup of coffee and eaten three slices of toast, so they’re likely out of the danger zone. “Legal?”

“Yep,” Gabriel says, cheerily. “Totally legal. Although, granted, not intended for hangovers.”

Castiel hmms in response and chases the painkillers down with coffee and another slice of bacon.

“You’re right,” He says, after a while, when the persistent ache in his head has lessened to a suggestion of pain and he’s started to feel slightly more _human_ and slightly less like a sack of inanimate objects that have been asked to function as organs, and --- he _does_ feel a little mellowed out on the other side of his awful drinking-and-crying and making a general fool of himself, or perhaps he’s too hungover to feel anything other than exhaustion and shame --- “You --- you _did_ help,” He says, drinking a little more of his third cup of coffee and pulling the words out of his gut. Maybe _this_ is normal, or understandable, but he doesn’t _want_ to be this person. Hungover and miserable and bleeding emotions all over the floor. “You _helped_ , Gabriel, but --- I need to talk to someone, properly. Someone qualified.” 

“Yep,” Gabriel says, nudging his arm and offering him a smile, “Proud of you, kiddo.” 

By the time he’s sat cross-legged on the floor of Esther and Mirabel’s bedroom deliberately colouring in her pony picture purple as requested, he feels much better, like some deep wound in his soul is beginning to scab over and heal. His body still aches and he still doesn’t really know what he’s doing, but Gabriel is playing hide and seek with Josiah, Samandriel is cooking a roast dinner and Dean text him a string of heart eyes emojis and a picture of the freshly delivered coffee earlier and it all feels a little more _manageable_. 

He _can_ do this, even if he can’t do it alone. 

*

Dean looks a little better rested when he picks Castiel up from the airport on Sunday evening, stood at the arrivals gate wearing his normal airport-discomfort all over his face, and it is _very good_ to see him. 

“Hey,” Dean says, after Castiel has thrown his arms around his neck and _held him_ , which heals a little more of the tight-worry in his chest. “You okay?”

“Yes,” Castiel says.

“Still hungover?”

“Yes,” Castiel concedes, because he is. This is his first _two day hangover_ and he is feeling appropriately crappy and ready to sleep, but there are lots of things they need to talk about first. “Please can we go home?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, expression breaking out into an affectionate look. “Wasn’t --- wasn’t _chasing you away_ ,” Dean continues, after they’re in the impala and are pulling out onto the road. “Didn’t want you to feel like that.”

“I know, Dean,” Castiel says, because he _does know_ and any frustration he had about that circled the drain when Josiah hugged him with a _’I love you, Uncle Castiel_ and when Gabriel took him out for breakfast this morning and told him a incredibly entertaining story about Gabriel’s last run in with Michael, Gabriel’s ex-girlfriend and a intern named Jerry. As alarming as it is to see how much sugar Gabriel can put away with his pancakes, Castiel actually ended _laughing_ and feeling disconcertingly _looked after_ by his family. A lot of the time, they feel more burdensome than helpful, but that’s not fair. Perhaps Michael or Zachariah or Naomi wouldn’t be nearly as nice to him, but he has enough siblings that he could stand to focus on the highlights sometimes. Gabriel was incredible all weekend. 

The fact is, he _is_ more equipped to deal with the gritty, meat of the thing on the other side of forty eight hours of space, because Dean is, as usual, correct. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Castiel says, “I should have told you how I felt.”

“Yeah, you should,” Dean says, “But, I know why you didn’t.” 

“I had a good time,” Castiel says, “Apart from the evil tequila.” 

“Tequila _is_ evil,” Dean agrees, “Good. You _look_ pretty rough, so yesterday must have sucked.”

“Thank you,” Castiel returns, resting a hand on Dean’s knee as he drives, “It’s always nice to have affirmation from your loving boyfriend.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet,” Dean snorts, and tells him about the barely-edible Sunday Dinner he missed at Bobby’s, falling into some winding tale about Sam trying to cook Dean breakfast in bed after John Winchester didn’t come home for Dean’s birthday and setting fire to a microwave for the rest of the way home.

Once they’re back, they end up on the sofa, wrapped around each other by wordless agreement, absorbing strength. Castiel’s never been like this with any of his other relationships, but then he’s always wanted to touch Dean: this insatiable need to be close enough to feel his body warmth, to know that _he’s right there_ and has the same tug of longing to be near, too, especially with everything that’s been happening. _Now_ he’s very happy to shamelessly indulge in tactility and touch, because it helps. 

Plus, they’re very good at it these days. They know how their bodies fit together.

“Dean,” Cas says, after a little while of savoring Dean’s arms around him and building up the determination to talk. He’d meant to use the plane ride to _think_ , but instead he fell asleep just after take-off and woke up after they landed. On balance, the extra nap was probably more beneficial than spending more time thinking, because he has been thinking incessantly about it for weeks. _Now_ , they need to talk. “I need you to do the thing where you’re honest with me about how you’re feeling without exception.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, a little resigned but not unhappy. “I know, been thinking about it.”

“It’s necessary.” Castiel says because… he doesn’t _want_ to need to ask for it --- for whatever reason, Dean doesn’t actually want their relationship to be structured in the same way that Dean-and-Sam is and Castiel had every intention of respecting that--- but he doesn’t know how they _can_ navigate this.

_Not_ being completely honest isn’t working. 

“It’s time, anyway,” Dean says, twisting his finger’s through the material of Cas’ shirt. The words settle something in Castiel’s gut. “So, I went to that support group thing on Friday.” Castiel shifts in his arms so he can look at his face and take in his expression and frown, trying to work him out. “That’s not why I suggested you go away this weekend, just how the dates fell and I thought you’d cancel if I told you about it.”

And… he _would_ have done. Definitely. 

“How was it?”

“Crap,” Dean says, with a shaky laugh. “Not for me. There’s another couple to try.”

“Why was it crap?”

“Just —- some straight guy talking about how _emasculating_ his experiences were got under my skin. I —- yeah, I know, the grit of it falls differently and I get what a fucking violation it could be if you’re not into that kind of thing, but —- I got thinking about how freaking easy it would be if it _was just that_ and then about what that guy would think of me if I said I’d signed up to get fucked initially, and then —- then I got in this spiral where I tried to work out exactly when it tipped over from _okay_ to not okay.”

“I don’t think it’s linear like that.” Castiel says, taking his hand holding it, tight. “Your view of all of it is coloured in hindsight.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “And it just —- escalated on me. Wasn’t like _one day_ he woke up and decided to be a psychopath. He just —- kept pushing. Kept taking it a little further. None of it _was ever_ okay, really, but uh —- there was definitely a time when I wasn’t scared for my life. But —- that’s not what you meant when you asked me to be honest.” 

“It isn’t not _not_ what I meant.”

“You wanna know how I’m doing,” Dean says, “Not great. Keep —- thinking about it. I, uh. Blocked a lot of this part of it out, apparently, and it’s kicking my ass.” 

“Both of those things are understandable,” Castiel says, taking his hand and ghosting his fingertips over Dean’s fingers, this wonderful, beautiful man. He _hates_ that Dean has to deal with any of it, when he deserves nothing more than easy, uncomplicated happiness. He is incredible, though, sat here calmly talking about the unthinkable. Castiel has never been so proud of anyone, or anything, but he doesn’t know how to _convey_ that, when there’s still so much to work through.

“I , uh —- had a pretty bad nightmare Friday night. Couldn’t work out if it was real, till I played _match_ with my scars. That’s fucked up, Cas.”

“Would that help?” Castiel asks, “Talking through them, so that it’s easier to establish what’s real?”

“I —- don’t know,” Dean says, “Sounds like a pretty fucking depressing game.”

“Yes, I don’t imagine it would be fun. Your nightmares have been —- bad.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, rubbing a hand over his face, “I wasn’t — wasn’t trying to keep you out last week, guess that didn’t help with you thinking I’m trying to _exile you_ but I just. You needed some sleep and, Cas,” Dean says, voice catching in the back of his throat, vulnerable and harrowing, “Don’t think it’s gonna get better for a while.”

“I know,” Castiel says, smoothing a hand over Dean’s palm. That’s why this is difficult, because there isn’t a quick fix. It’s not going to _go away_ , even if they are honest and raw and tell each other all the thoughts in their heads. This is going to take some time. “I don’t think our current approach to sex is helping.”

“Got no idea what you mean,” Dean says, voice thick with gritty sarcasm. “Has it not been good for you?”

“Dean,” Castiel says, even. “I know you hate it, but I think ---”

“--- Yeah,” Dean exhales, “Pushing past it is a bust.”

He really, really wishes that he could _do something_ that would make this easier. 

“You’re not giving yourself enough time.”

“Don’t _want_ any fucking time,” Dean says, “Cas, it’s been _years_.”

“It has been _weeks_ since you’ve attempted to process it,” Castiel says, low and soft, “You need time and I --- I don’t want to be complicit in you damaging your recovery with impatience.”

“Okay,” Dean says, just looking at him, “What do you want?”

“I want,” Castiel says, gathering together everything that’s been flitting through his head over the past few weeks and trying to dilute them into a few simple words. Ideally, they will be _unemotive_ , but --- but it’s not really that kind of topic. “I want sex to be off the table for a while.”

“Awesome.”

“Dean,” Castiel says, looking at him very, very deliberately and summoning his courage. Honesty without exception goes both ways. “You are a very attractive, enigmatic man and sleeping with you is one of the great joys of my existence, but --- sometimes, when you dissociate, you look like you’re scared of me, and I --- it _breaks_ something in me.”

“Cas --”

“Please don’t apologise to me,” Castiel says, voice taunt, “I’m --- I’m trying to be honest, but I don’t --- it’s not your _fault_ and… this isn’t about treating you with _kid-gloves_ , I just --- _I can’t_.” 

“Okay,” Dean exhales, threading their fingers together and squeezing his hand. Castiel isn’t expecting it, this almost-easy acceptance, and it has the air rushing out of his lungs and an almost-sob ripping out of his throat. He _wanted_ to be stronger than this, but —- 

He knows Dean hates being cautious and slow, so they wrote that list of _things that aren’t trigger_ , but that list is a changing, fluid thing currently. Things that _weren’t triggers_ have put that absent, haunted look on Dean’s face and…. logically, Castiel knows that it’s not his fault, and Dean has told him he’s done nothing wrong, but it still _feels_ like he’s ruining everything and hurting Dean, and it stays in his head, and he repeats it over and over, and he’s self-conscious about being _near Dean_. He just —- can’t. Not right now, when Dean is having so many bad dreams and is walking around tense and guarded and _sad_ and it all starts to feel like Castiel is making it worse. 

“Not _ignorant_ to the fact that watching me have a freaking meltdown hurts you, Cas,” Dean says, “I’m _frustrated_ and I’m pissed off at my broken-head, but I --- you’re more important than any of this. Our relationship is more important than this. I --- if that’s what you want, what you need, then we’ll do it, and… you’re probably right,” Dean says, although it looks like it costs him. “Pretty sure the pressure aint helping.”

“Pressure,” Castiel frowns.

“Not from _you_ , exactly,” Dean says, “Know you’re not --- expecting anything, I just. Feel like I’m letting you down.”

“You are not letting me down,” Castiel frowns, with his forehead furrowed, cradling Dean’s hands in his own with all the care and precision that Dean should be treated with. The idea of Dean _letting him down_ is ridiculous, because Dean is _exceptional_. 

“Yeah, but --- convenient and lonely.”

“What?”

“You were _sleeping with Crowley_ , you --- you’re not a monk.”

“Dean,” Castiel says, “There is a different physical intimacy and sex, and there is a difference between _genuine relationship_ and sex. Sleeping with Crowley was a poor substitution for both. I am _not lonely_. I’m not going to insult you by saying I don’t care about sex, but it is much less important to me than everything else, then _you_ , and ---- I am not talking about forever.”

“Hopefully.”

“Dean,” Castiel says, “Don’t be defeatist. You need time, but you are a walking miracle. You can do anything, but --- …. I need some time.” 

“How much time?” Dean says, “That --- came out wrong. Just, we’re tabelling sex. Okay. When’s it _back_ on the table?”

“Let’s talk about it in a few weeks,”

Dean nods, jaw squared with a dark look on his face that Castiel wishes he could fix, or chase away with affection and love. 

“You said _dissociate_ ,” Dean says, as Castiel’s lungs constrict. He didn’t _mean_ to say that, exactly. “Don’t worry, Cas, I know you —- you’re pretty sensitive about not putting words in my mouth.”

“These are your experiences Dean.”

“I appreciate it,” Dean says, “But it’s okay. You’re allowed to default on your own rules sometimes. You don’t need to have rules in the first place, really, but you’re not _wrong_ about the dissociation. It… the first six months after, that was me. Walking dissociated zombie.”

“You’d been through something awful.”

“It’s —- protecting yourself,” Dean says, “Couldn’t deal with what was happening when I was with the guy, I’d have drowned in it, so I —- I wanted to not be there. Not be aware. And it probably saved me, in some ways, but then I was out and my brain wanted to catch up and I couldn’t—- but thought I _had_ caught up and this _stuff_ all just threw me. Should’ve been _obvious_.”

“Don’t be disparaging of yourself,” Castiel says, “This is —- survival.”

“It’s fucking shit.” 

“That too,” Castiel says, “Dean, you --- before you _caught up_ , you said took medication before you started therapy. I don’t,” He begins, then stops because he doesn’t want to _step over Dean’s boundaries_ , because it’s not really up to him, it’s just… he hates to see him look so tired. 

“Yeah,” Dean says, “My pal Sertraline. Antidepressants. Sleeping tablets. It’s --- it’s an _option_ , but it’s more like sticking a bandaid on a bullet wound. Doesn’t really _help_ , long term, but --- it feels like giving up.” 

“It isn’t,” Castiel says, “But I…. I understand. How do I help? With the dissociation?” 

“Here’s the thing,” Dean says, “I, uh. I want you to be equipped in dealing with it. With me. But I also don’t really know how to have this conversation, without feeling guilty about it. Like you’d be better off ditching out and —- I know, Cas, you say you’re not interested in an out, but —- this is the worst I’ve been in years, and it’s a lot, and you —- you’re tired, man. You’re not sleeping.”

“You’re not sleeping either.”

“Yeah,” Dean says with a shaky exhale, “I’m not, you’re not. I’m tense. _You’re tense_.”

“You wanted me to go this weekend for _you_ to have space.” 

“For both of us,” Dean says, “To have some time to think, without falling over ourselves trying to be there for each other. Too much _pressure_.” 

“I didn’t _think,_ I got very, very drunk.”

“That works too,” Dean says, “Sometimes it’s good to take a break off being so fucking reasonable about everything and do something stupid. Be getting drunk right about now if I didn’t know how that ended. Point is —- last week, I was irritated about this damn panic attack and you said _the man raped you; this is more than understandable_ after flat out fucking refusing to say that word and —- I don’t care, Cas, it’s not like it’s inaccurate, but I just —- I worry about you, not dealing, and I can’t help becuase _I’ve got nothing but survival right now_ , and _then_ there’s the guilt and this nagging feeling that I’m letting you down by not getting my shit together and —— I know,” Dean says, “That’s not how you feel, but. I think — fuck, I can’t believe I’m saying this — that while we’re both emotional wrecks, we should…. Back at the beginning, with Sam, there was this woman — trauma therapist stroke family and relationships counsellor — and she got us in a good place, with the whole borrowing money to pay for his college thing.”

“You said you went on a _feel your feelings road trip_ and Sam yelled you and hugged you and cried.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “ _After_ we went to couples therapy. There was a lot of hurt there, Cas. He blamed me, I blamed me, he blamed himself, _I blamed him_ and —- Sam is pretty level headed about all of this now, but back then he was _way_ less fucking adaptable and considerate and patient than you are.”

“You haven’t —- you said your brother saved your life.” 

“He did,” Dean says, “But he was a goddamn kid. Barely able to drink, with both our parents dead, with me having panic attacks, zoning out, pissed and hurting and broken. He didn’t know what the hell he was doing, and —- when I decided I was gonna talk about all of it —- do the talk therapy thing —-I said I’d only do it if he went and spoke to someone too. So he signed up to some counselling through his fancy school, and I stared it up here, and in the summer we had _fucking group therapy_ and it —- it was excruciating on my damn pride, but there’s only so much of that you’ve got left when your _kid brother_ has to tell you your nightmares aren’t true. The point is —- I want you to talk to someone. Not Gabriel, someone, although that too. Weekly appointments until I’m less of a basket case. I can pay for it.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous, you’re not going to _pay_.” Castiel says, forehead creased. “And —- I was going to, anyway. I decided this weekend.”

“Good,” Dean exhales, “Okay, awesome. Wish I’d let you say that before railroading you into going to therapy, which I’m pretty sure it’s like a massive no-no in relationship 101.” 

“I don’t think that class was written with this in mind.”

“No,” 

“We can do the couple thing too if you want.”

“Want is a strong fucking word,” Dean says, “I just think --- however cool you are about this right now, _not sleeping together_ it’s —- all of this, nightmares and fucking trauma, it’s gonna put a strain on _us_ , hell, it already is, and —— this is the best thing in my life. I don’t want it to crumble. I wish —- I wish they were all in separate fucking boxes and I could deal with _that_ without if effecting _this_ , but that’s not —- we’re only human.”

“Dean,” Castiel says, reaching out to cup Dean’s cheek with his palm, “I love you.”

“Too much,” Dean says, shaky. 

“Just enough,” Castiel says, “I think you are — _incredible_ and I’m —- yes, I’m finding this hard, because I hate to see you in pain and I want to do more.” 

“Don’t need you to do _more_ ,” Dean says, “I just need you to look after yourself, man.” 

“I know,” Castiel says, “I —- thank you for looking out for me, even when you have more than enough on your plate.”

“Cas,” Dean says, “I’m fucking _enamored_ with you. I don’t —- you’re everything. This other stuff is just —- inconvenient.”

“It is inconvenient,” Castiel agrees, leaning forward to kiss him, briefly. 

“You okay?” Dean asks, barriers down, perfect and vulnerable and _incredible_. Dean is his favourite human and he is _so much better_ at this than Castiel. If he was being fair, he’d say that Dean has practice, but he is…. Remarkable. Brilliant. 

“Honestly,” Castiel says, thumbing along the rough of Dean’s jaw, “No. But —- I believe in us, and… you’re very inspiring, Dean. Selfless and loving, brave. You own your mistakes and forgive yourself for them. You are funny and enigmatic and —— _generous_ , and exceptionally handsome, and—- and you have good taste in coffee, when you surrender your pride.”

“You forgot _adorable_ and charming.”

“You’re right,” Castiel says, kissing him again, “I did forget. It must be my lingering hangover.” 

“Know a cure for that,” Dean says, lighter than he’s sounded all evening, with that lovely smile and…. Yes, everything is going to be alright. It has to be, because he needs to see those smiles all the time. 

“Does it involve spooning and an early night?”

“Bingo,” Dean says, standing up and offering him a hand and leading him to bed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holiday's y'all!! Hope yours hasn't been too interrupted by this stupid pandemic (stupid, stupid virus). Apologies this hasn't been the world's most light heated thing but, y'know, feel like you probably knew what you were signing up for at this point.


	10. Ruts

The first time Castiel knew that Dean Winchester was scared of things was that first summer at the Beach House. He was _used_ to Dean being bright and funny interspersed with these brooding silences that never made any sense to Castiel, but that summer everything changed: they talked about their dead mothers in the middle of the night in those bunk beds and right before they were about to leave Dean said that he was worried they’d get back and find that John Winchester had gone.

It didn’t seem like a very likely fear to Castiel at the time. While Chuck had been absent for years, he never left them _alone_ , alone, and Castiel assumed that was just something adults didn’t do; not to a minor and a child. The subject of the fear didn’t really matter, though, because it felt like a privilege that Dean was sharing this at all. It felt like another precious jigsaw piece falling into place, as Dean sat with his back against the ‘cliff edge’ and told him that ‘Dad —- he’s got other responsibilities, it’s not his _fault_ ’ in this hushed, dejected sort of voice that made his chest feel tight. He told Castiel that John Winchester ‘depended’ on him, with this edge of pride to it that set Castiel’s teeth on edge. They were twelve and, even then, Castiel longed for his father’s approval and attention, and Dean said _depended on_ like it was a badge of honour, but mostly it sounded lonely and too serious. _‘I look after Sam, sometimes,’_ , he said, looking at his feet curled up in the sand. And —— Castiel had _seen that too_ , in the way that Dean had hovered around him those first few days, made sure he ate, checked in with him. He’d thought it was nice, because none of his elder brothers had ever been so protective or receptive to Castiel’s needs. Then, they’d settled in and…. Dean seemed so much freer. Unburdened. The way Sam and Dean talked to each other seemed to shift. Sam became less serious, more mischievous, younger. Dean _hovered less_. He worried less. His extremes mellowed out until he was light and happy and easy to be around and —— wonderful. Dean was always wonderful -- Castiel was enthralled with him from the off, really --- but it was _something_ to see him childlike, free, laughing.

The temperature was beginning to dip and Castiel was about to say that they should be going back up to the house when Dean put his hands in his pockets and said “I don’t want to go home,” and Castiel had realised, for the first time, that Dean was very unhappy.

_I don’t know about your Dad,_ Castiel had said, looking straight at him, _But you’ll always have me_. 

(Except, of course, Dean didn’t but… Castiel is mostly past holding himself responsible for promises he made when he was twelve and mistakes he made when he was twenty four and didn’t _know anything_ about how his life would turn out. Sometimes they are hard to live with but Castiel _didn’t know_ everything. He didn’t know that life could be so _complicated_ and difficult. He didn’t know Dean loved him, he didn’t Crowley would betray him, he didn’t know, and…. And it’s easier to live with those things when Dean laughs, kisses the corner of his mouth on the way out of the door and casually includes him in his future plans like it’s a given).

Dean smiled into the sand and didn’t say anything else, but he seemed a little happier when they finally walked back up to the house and that appeased something in Castiel’s gut. It wasn’t _enough_ , though. He _wanted_ to iron out all the difficulties and struggles in Dean’s life and make things _simple_ and _light_ because it felt so unfair that someone as luminous as Dean could _be so unhappy_ , and ---

\--- And Castiel wakes to the room suddenly being flooded by light, Dean fumbling to sit up in bed next to him, breathing heavily.

“Dean?” Castiel croaks out.

“Fuck, _sorry_ ,” Dean mutters, shaky hands rubbing over his face. Castiel’s still adjusting to the _sudden consciousness_ as Dean pulls his legs up to his chest and breathes, slowly. “Sorry, I just ---”

“--- Doesn’t matter,” Castiel says, sitting up a little. The clock on the bedside table is telling him that it’s a little past three in the morning, which is probably why Castiel’s brain is struggling to catch up. He didn’t _used_ to sleep through Dean’s nightmares, but _recently_ there’s been enough of them that it no longer always wakes him up, and Dean has been more purposefully pushing him out under the notion that at least _one_ of them should sleep. On a personal level, he would rather spend every night Dean spends on the sofa _with him_ if he can help, but it’s not his choice and he _understands_ Dean’s reasoning. “Dean.”

He looks _bad_. He’s pale and drawn out even lit by the orange glow of his bedside light but… that isn’t a _surprise_ , anymore. He’s become accustomed to seeing Dean clammy and shaky and vulnerable and --- and _he hates it_.

Dean mutters another swear word into his hands. Castiel would like to put a hand on his knee, but it’s not usually a good idea to engage in physical contact right after Dean’s woke up.

Instead, he gets out of bed, half trips over the edge of the bed on the way to the kitchen. By the time he’s returned with a glass of water, Dean has his eyes slammed shut, one resting over his pentagram tattoo, breathing in and out. Counting, Dean told him once. He said it helped. He said it was _grounding_. He said he catalogued his senses and waited for his heart rate to slow down. Two days ago, in their duo-therapy, Dean said he’d been dreaming about the day Alastair broke his fingers ‘ _for kicks_ ’.

Getting him a glass of water is _woefully_ inadequate, but he sits on the edge of Dean’s side of the bed anyway and watches.

“Didn’t mean to wake you up,” Dean says after a while, sounding a little like someone’s hollowed him out with a blunt instrument. 

“Are you alright?” Castiel asks, because Dean’s comment isn’t worth acknowledgement. 

He’d been surprised when he came back from dinner with Meg to find that Dean was already in bed given most nights this week Dean has procrastinated actually attempting sleep significantly past the point of sensibility. It’s _understandable_ given the increased frequency of his nightmares, but… he still _doesn’t have them_ more often than not and Castiel can’t decide if the content of them is _worse_ , or if Dean just has increased anxiety about them generally. Castiel’s never seen him attempt to avoid sleep before but _lately_ he’s been pushing back going to bed, then lying awake half the night, tense and tossing and turning, or giving up halfway through the night to get up and do something else. Castiel was _pleased_ that he came home to a dark apartment at half ten to find Dean was already in bed, because ---

Above everything else, Dean needs _some rest_. 

“Peachy,” Dean says, clumsily reaching for the water and taking a sip. “You have a good time with Meg?”

“I --- yes,” Castiel says, “Dean.”

“Look, I don’t wanna talk about it,” Dean says, which is unsurprising. Dean _never_ feels like discussing his nightmares right after they’ve happened, but that wasn’t really going to be his suggestion. Mostly, he wanted to know if he could _help_ , or _hold him_ , or both. “She take you to that rum place?”

“Yes,” Castiel says, “They have salsa dancing on Fridays. It was very loud.”

“Salsa,” Dean snorts, “I’d pay good fucking money to see you salsa.”

“I didn’t say _I_ salsaed,” Castiel says, “But you would have to exchange no money. If it would cheer you up, I can attempt it for you.”

“Maybe in the morning,” Dean says, running a tongue over his lip and cracking a poor attempt at a smile that makes something in Castiel’s chest ache. “Hey.”

“Hello Dean,” Castiel says, “How was your day?”

“Uh --- bad,” Dean says, running his tongue over his lip again, shoulders still bunched up. That isn’t necessarily surprising, either, given Dean had work, almost back-to-back appointments then his usual dinner with Sam. He didn’t _want_ to have the psychiatrist appointment, at all, but it seemed to be some kind of suggestion or requirement from his therapist that Dean had conceded to. Castiel highly doubts that the support group for sexual assault and domestic abuse is _ever_ fun and he probably would have talked about both of these things with Sam over dinner. It certainly wouldn’t have been a light day, although none of them have been recently. “You should --- you should sleep. I’m, I’m gonna…”

“Dean,” Castiel says, fingers itching to reach forward and _touch him_. “You need to sleep.”

“-- _Cas_ ,” Dean says, voice tight, imploring, _broken_. “I can’t.”

Castiel swallows his objection to that because… he _doesn’t know_ what it’s like. He can’t imagine what it’s like to have the threat of reliving such bloody, gritty trauma whenever he shut his eyes, which means he shouldn’t have an opinion. He _does_ have opinions, but…

“You’re tired,” Castiel says, mouth drawn.

“Yeah,” Dean exhales, “Look --- didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“I don’t care,” Castiel says, frowning at him, “We have nothing on tomorrow, anyway.”

“Guess not,” Dean breathes. 

“Sit with me awhile,” Castiel says, setting his hand down on his own knee rather than Dean’s, “I’ll tell you about Gabriel’s new business venture.”

“Wow, what an offer,” Dean mutters, brushing a thumb over Castiel’s knuckles. Dean’s hands are clammy, but it still bleeds warmth into his spine. He’s _okay_. Dean is completely remarkable and he will get through this. He is strong and solid and lovely. “Yeah, okay, just --- give me a minute, Cas.” Dean says, much easier to convince than Castiel expected him to be.

He busies himself with re-making the bed for something to do while Dean’s in the bathroom, turning on his own bedside light and settling back on his pillows. Dean looks slightly better after he’s re-emerged. He has more colour, at least. He still looks tired and a little haunted but the expression on his face is slightly looser. His hard edges rounded off. 

“So, Gabriel,” Dean says, sitting down, sprawling across the bed and resting his head in Castiel’s lap and… and there’s a sudden rush of relief, comfort, almost-satisfaction. God, _finally_. Castiel brushes his fingers through Dean’s hair, across his forehead, jaw, settles with his fingers against his pulse point. His heart is beating too fast, but it begins to calm as he lies there and looks up at him. 

“Yes, Gabriel,” Castiel says, and then he tells him about Gabriel’s latest string of misendeavours, talking slow and steady until Dean falls back to sleep in his arms.

*

When Castiel wakes up the next morning, Dean is still asleep, which is excellent. Somehow he migrated across to his side of the bed overnight, but their feet are still tangled together and Dean looks something adjacent to _peaceful_ like this. He looks significantly better than he has done _conscious_ for months, because as handsome and enigmatic as Dean is, lately he’s been… struggling. Unsteady. Withdrawn. Obviously, he is still gorgeous --- he doubts there is _anything_ Dean could do to not be breathtaking --- but he’s been wearing his pain more visibly, lately, and… the concern has been staurating Castiel’s whole existence.

_He just wants to help_. 

Castiel just manages to stop himself halfway through texting Sam and asking _‘how did he seem last night?’_ because Dean is not a child and he would hate the idea of Castiel and Sam clubbing together to discuss Dean’s welfare, when Dean is perfectly able to talk about himself if he wants to. And he has, mostly. He has been _telling Castiel what’s going on in his head_ even when he would clearly rather do anything else but talk about it and even when they’re unpleasant, hard thoughts that Dean is fully aware is going to upset him. He’s been tolerating and engaging with their duo-therapy and his own, and his support group to the point where Castiel is relatively sure he’s _overdoing it_ , but Castiel has to remind himself that Dean has done this before. Dean _told him_ he was a ‘burnt out, hollow, mess; a ‘shaky, wreck of a human’; an empty fucking shell. Dean has _done this before_ and… this is Dean’s history, Dean’s trauma, Dean’s decisions. Dean _rebuilt_ himself years ago and this is just… something that Dean has to go through, which means it’s something that Castiel has to wait out. 

Castiel needs patience and perspective, not to run to Sam for an update. 

He deletes the drafted messages to Sam (what he _really_ wants from Sam is a roadmap out of this, or to ask Sam whether he thinks things are _getting better_ anyway, but it won’t actually help, because then Castiel will default to being immature and ridiculous and thinking about how he wasn’t there last time) and pulls him a text from Gabriel instead, who’s asked how he is and followed up with an obscure message that says ‘how’s the’ followed by two blue circles and a question mark that’s entirely baffling. He responds to tell Gabriel that he’s _fine_ and pleased that Dean has decided not to work this weekend so that they can have some _time together_ and that he has no idea how to answer the latter question.

Dean turns over in his sleep and plasters his face into Castiel’s shoulder. It’s slightly after ten, which means that Dean’s been asleep for at least five hours straight, plus the time he slept before his nightmare. That’s much better than most of the week, even if it’s not the twelve hours straight he probably needs. 

The support group Dean settled on happens to be in the middle of his Friday shift and because he is _Dean_ , with his infuriating pride, he insisted he was not going to “take the piss just because I can’t handle my bullshit emotions'', even though Bobby said it was unnecessary to make up his hours, like Dean had been spending his time on some frivolous emotional drama rather than _significant psychological trauma_. In theory, he was only working an extra half shift the last four or fives Saturday, but then comes home and _flops_ on the sofa, exhausted and spent, until the whole weekend slipped away without them actually having some _quality time_. 

After the incident on Monday, Castiel had inadvertently snapped out exactly what he thought about Dean catching up work hours on Saturday and that he was not intending to let Dean repeat it this week, which was an outburst he’d probably regret if Dean hadn’t _agreed to it_ and wasn’t asleep right now, the solid warmth of him pressed against Castiel’s side.

Castiel _did not mean to lose his temper_. He spent most of the week irritated with himself about his lack of control over his emotions, until he dissected some of that in his own therapy session and then decided to do what Dean has always been telling him to do and ‘cut himself some slack’. Things have been _heavy_. He’s been worried and powerless and frustrated, because he has opinions that he’s not entitled to, and…. And it’s hard to be frustrated with himself when it’s all worked out for the best because _he is right_ that Dean is trying to do too much.

“We gotta do something about your watching me sleep habit,” Dean mutters, eyes still shut, which Castiel takes as permission to do what he’s wanted for the last thirty minutes or so and brush a thumb over the shell of his ear. He’s overdue a haircut, but Castiel quite likes it.

“Morning, Dean.”

“Hmm,” Dean hums, pulling the covers around him.

“Do you want coffee?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, opening his eyes and stretching. “Yeah.” 

“Allright,” Castiel says, leaning forward to drop a kiss onto the rough of his cheek and smiling at him. He gets a perfect bleary affectionate look back, then Dean rolls over to steal Castiel’s side of the bed and bury his face in the pillow, and it’s all normal and lazy enough that things feel fine.

They _will_ be fine, Castiel reminds himself as he makes the coffee. Lots of things _are_ fine. Some things are good, even, because Dean is remarkable and still has the strength to be generous and selfless while battling with his head. He is _still Dean_ , which means he’s unexpectedly sweet, dedicated, kind, the love of Castiel’s life.

And… Dean left his car keys, wallet and a badly folded leaflet on ‘sleep hygiene’ on the kitchen counter. Castiel deliberately evens out the creases with his thumb as he waits for the coffee to brew, frowning at it. He deliberately didn’t drink much last night because he wanted to hear about Dean’s psychiatrist appointment (much to Meg’s disappointment), then picked his way across the dark apartment when he found Dean was already asleep. This must be the result of it.

_Sleep hygiene_. 

It’s not _surprising_ that the doctor was also concerned about Dean not sleeping—- it’s been bothering Castiel for weeks —-, but he is very doubtful that Dean took the suggestions of _minimizing caffeine intake, have a set bedtime, get some exercise_ with good humour. He flips it open at he gets out the mugs and frowns at _only use your bed for sleep or sex_ because he can imagine the exact dark smile Dean would wear if some medical professional said those words to him. The barbed humour. The awkward silence for the doctor.

Castiel supposes that the mystery of Dean’s early night is solved. It would be very _Dean_ to respond to a medical professionals worry by bullishly trying to prove them incorrect. 

In the end, Castiel abandons the leaflet and elects to bring the entire cafetiere and two mugs back to their bedroom, because he would like to spend as long as possible with his remarkable, miracle of a boyfriend, away from any niggling thoughts about any of the crappy things that are happening right now. Really, he would like to drag Dean away from real life and make their own private _cocoon_ of rest and safety and not thinking too hard about mistakes and pain and scars and flashbacks for at least a week. He would like Dean to _stop_ fighting so damn hard to _keep going_ at everything -- game’s night and _work_ and Friday dinner with his brother and Sunday dinner at Bobby’s --- because Dean is _exhausted_ and has spent the majority of the rest of the time half-present and barely cognizant. He _understands_ that Dean would see it as giving up, after all the hard work he put into rebuilding his life into something so good, but _it is not helping_ , and _he misses him_.

Castiel doesn’t know how to say that without it sounding like he misses Dean being well. He does, obviously, but…. But he doesn’t mean that like he is _impatient_ with Dean’s recovery, or frustrated with it. He doesn’t care about that. He wants Dean to be well for the sake of _Dean_ , not for his own self-interest. He _loves_ him and he’s fully aware that this is going to take some time, he just feels like ---

Dean has diminished capacity at the moment and he is stretching that capacity across _every other thing_ and Castiel is selfish enough to want some of it for himself.

He’s very glad that Dean isn’t working today.

“Why’s your brother sending freakin’ _dick_ emojis?” Dean asks, half propped up in bed as he chucks Castiel’s phone back in his direction. 

“What?”

“Didn’t mean to read it,” Dean says, “Just flashed up.”

“That’s not of import. I don’t care if you look at my phone.” Castiel frowns, sitting down and pulling the sheets over his legs. “Gabriel is sending me what?” Castiel asks, squinting at his phone. Gabriel has indeed sent him an eggplant followed by another two blue circles, like this is supposed to mean _anything_ to him at this time in the morning, when he was awake half the night. Dean leans over his shoulder and snorts.

“Blue balls, Cas.”

_How's the blue balls?_

If Gabriel was within a reasonable radius of Castiel’s fist, Castiel would be on his way to punch him in the face and he is quite sure that he would enjoy it. Sadly, Gabriel is in New York and Castiel’s spike of anger would probably have diminished by the time he flew out there. 

“I --- that _assbut_ ,” Castiel says, dropping his phone with distaste. “Dean, I have _not_ been discussing ----”

“It’s --- whatever, Cas,” Dean says, “Wouldn’t be the most embarrassing shit Gabriel knows about me.”

“He doesn’t _know_ \---”

“--- _How are_ the blue balls?” Dean asks, in that faux-casual voice that drives him slightly insane. 

“Here is your coffee,” Castiel says, pressing a mug into his hands and frowning at it. Sex isn’t officially _off_ the table anymore, as much as not really happening which _is fine_. Castiel doesn’t really know how to convey to Dean that seeing him skittish and _shook_ and scared is one of least-sexy experience of his life without it sounding insulting or patronising. He doesn’t really know how to communicate that he’s in no particular rush without any implications that Dean would find frustrating or offensive. Dean is _fucking beautiful_ , obviously, and ---- and yes, he would like not to feel like he’s being careful around him, and he _likes sex_ and in an ideal world he would not live without it, but it’s not _his priority in this_ , except for the part where it’s so important to Dean. He _loves_ Dean to distraction and he’s almost-irritated with the way that Dean seems so convinced that it must be so high on Castiel’s priority list, like _that_ is the reason why all of this bothers him compared to Dean being in pain. He _understands_ why this is so important to Dean --- his sexuality is part of himself that has been _taken away_ by Alastair --- but he wishes, sometimes, that he could adequately convince Dean that their relationship is precious and important at it is. 

Castiel is not some uneducated, immature teeanger complaining about _blue balls_.

(And then there was _Monday_ where Castiel got back from representing the soup kitchen in another clash with the council about ordinance codes and Dean had kissed him against the kitchen counter, with intent, before Castiel had even shrugged off his trench coat and Castiel had _gone with it_ because he is weak and because Dean _wanted him to_ , and it was all heat and passion and churned up longing and they’d gotten as far as their actual bedroom, pulling at clothes and Castiel trying to ask _’Dean, are you sure_ ’ in this wrecked-voice, and Dean saying _’yeah, Cas, really fucking sure’_ until he froze, and then Castiel _immediately backed off_. Dean had that look of mixed frustration and gut-wrenching _anguish_ and after they debriefed he didn’t say anything else all evening, until Castiel _snapped_ about him working all weekend because he was angry and frustrated and he has lots of opinions about all of this that he’s been sitting on.)

“Thanks,” Dean says, sounding decidedly _unthankful_ as he takes his coffee.

“Are you going to tell me about your psychiatrist appointment?” Castiel asks, in part because he doesn't want to talk about the other thing and he thinks his question is more productive. He _wants_ to know.

“These sheet’s new?” Dean counters, thumbing the edge of the duvet cover. As a conversational switch it’s _bizarre_ but not especially less subtle than Castiel’s change of conversation. 

“Yes.” 

“Huh,” Dean says, mouth doing something unfathomable.“This, like, some _sneak plan_ to replace everything in my apartment with expensive shit?” 

“What?” Castiel frowns, gaze drilling into the side of his head where he’s cradling his coffee because… he _understands_ Dean’s diversion tactics -- he more or less taught Castiel how they worked when they were teenagers, after all -- but Dean doesn’t usually _say anything_ particularly inflammatory about Castiel’s ‘expensive shit’. He certainly _behaves_ like a mildly-endearing child at times, pretending to avoid Castiel’s coffee, being so pointed about _whose turn it is to pay_ and the eyebrow raises whenever Castiel tips, but he makes a concentrated effort to keep his opinion in his head. _This_ matched with referring to the place that they’ve both lived for _months_ as 'his' is…. Unexpectedly eristic. “Replacing the damn sheets on the sly.”

And it _certainly works._

“We had a conversation about it, Dean, it was not _on the sly_ , they are from _walmart_ and you’re being paranoid and mildly insane.” Castiel snaps, with enough heat that some of his coffee sloshes over the edge of the cup. 

“And _now_ you sound like my fucking doctor.”

“Dean,” Castiel says, frown deepening, “That’s not funny.”

“Wasn’t really attempting to be,” Dean says, “When did we talk about bed sheets?”

“Is this _really_ the important part of the conversation? And it is not _your apartment_ , we live together.” 

“Kay, now you’re being pedantic.”

“ _I_ am being pedantic?” Castiel bristles and _why_ is Dean so good at antagonising him, when Castiel does not actually care about this? He doesn’t _care_ about fucking bedsheets or _money_ or Dean calling this _his_ apartment, but already he’s half jumping to making some stupid comment about how Dean probably talked to _Sam_ about his appointment last week, like any of it matters.

“Remember that part of this morning before we started talking? That was fun. Let’s do that again.” 

“You mean _unconsciousness_.”

“Sure,” Dean says, “Sounds fucking great.” 

“Dean,”

“ _Sorry_ ,” Dean exhales. “Fuck --- sorry. I just…”

“It doesn’t matter,” Castiel says, heat dropping out of his voice, nudging him with his knee under the cover. “You’re tired and attempting to _divert me_. I shouldn’t have taken the bait.”

“ _You_ started it, with your diversion tactics.” Dean says, “But whatever, shouldn’t have baited you.”

“My _balls_ are fine.”

“I’ll say,” Dean comments, which is charming and stupid and shouldn’t make Castiel smile, “I _like_ the bedsheets.”

“They’re almost an exact replica of the last ones, except they do not have a hole in them,” Castiel says, which is broadly true. He did select the more expensive version of the Walmart collection, because the cheap ones are a false economy and Dean _likes_ being comfortable, but he isn’t going to defend this choice because it literally does not matter. “You don’t have to talk to me about your appointment if you don’t want to.” Castiel says, which wins him a deep sigh, like Castiel is being completely unreasonable by offering up exactly what Dean wanted in the first place.

“Just hate fuckin’ doctors spending five minutes half listening to me and boiling down something really goddamn complicated to a couple of shitty labels.”

“Is it the _label in particular_ that you take issue with, or the manner in which he came to it?” Castiel asks, tilting his head and looking at him.

“You don’t have to be so freaking _coy_ about it, we both know they stuck the PTSD label on me a long damn time ago.” 

“Well,” Castiel frowns, because, yes, he had _assumed_ , but Dean is familiar with his commitment to not putting words in Dean’s mouth, “You don’t use the term.”

“I just —- don’t know how wrapping this shit in a bow and giving it a name is supposed to help anyone except the people who can’t be fucked to take the time to actually understand,” Dean says, “I don’t have a fucking _disorder_ I just have a graveyard in my damn head. But —- I get it. It’s a _communication_ thing, so I can just give someone a couple of damn letters without getting into it, so I _have_ used it. With scoping out new therapists, dumbass support group, with Charlie.”

“I didn’t know that.” 

“Yeah,” Dean exhales, “I _stopped_ using it a long time ago, cause it felt like I was over it, which is hilarious.”

“We have a different definition of hilarious,” Castiel says, “So —- this bothered you. The label being reinstated.”

“No,” Dean says, frowning into his coffee, “That, I expected, but he slapped me with generalized anxiety and acute insomnia and offered me drugs, and —- I dunno, I just, wasn’t in the market for a diagnosis, and _you try_ sleeping when you’re subconscious treats you to a technicolour flashback of the trauma of the week.”

Castiel takes his hand because he doesn’t really know what to say. It’s warm from his coffee, soft and solid. 

“M’ fed up of not being okay.” 

“I know,” Castiel says, low. Generalized anxiety, Castiel knows nothing about, but Dean _has_ been extremely stressed. Reverting to his old habit of switching between restlessness and exhaustion, not sleeping. It’s all connected. He’s sure that if one part of it unravels, the rest will follow, but _how_ one unravels something so horrible or traumatic, Castiel has no idea. “All of those things are very understandable trauma responses.”

“I know they’re fucking understandable, I’m just _bored of them_.”

“Yes,” Castiel says, “That’s fair. What can I do?”

“Nothing,” Dean says, “You’re —- already perfect.” 

“Dean,” Castiel counters, because that’s absurd. He’s already proven that incorrect three times this morning and Dean isn’t even out of bed yet. “I’m not handling this nearly as well as I’d _like to_.”

“Yeah, well, you’re a human being,” Dean says, “You’re—— you’re all good, honestly. Do we —- there shit we gotta do today?” 

“No,” Castiel says, “Well, a milk run. I can do that.” 

“N’ah, I can —- we can both go,” Dean says, shutting his eyes again. “Just, in a bit.” 

“There’s no rush,” Castiel says, “Unless you want more coffee after this and can’t tolerate it black.”

“I can tolerate it.”

“Would you still like your salsa dance?”

Dean huffs a laugh and smiles a little, which makes it worth it.

“N’ah,” Dean says, changing his grip on his coffee to be one-handed, readjusting the pillows behind his head and making a perfect Castiel-shaped space under his other arm. “Just — get over here.”

“I love you,” Castiel says, after he’s tucked himself under Dean’s arm with his coffee and their new sheets pulled over their legs. It’s been a very long week and _this_ is what he’s been wanting. Dean.

“I, uh,” Dean says, weighing the words up in his mouth. “Considering the sleeping tablets, thing.”

“You do need some sleep,” Castiel says, keeping his voice level. His instinct is to jump at the suggestion because his worry about Dean _not sleeping_ has definitely increased in the last few weeks, but he also remembers Dean’s reluctance about the topic when it first came up.

“Yep,” 

“You —- you said they were like a bandaid on a bullet wound.”

“Well yeah,” Dean says, “But at least there’s less blood all over the fucking carpet.”

“Am I the carpet in this metaphor? Because I really don’t care about you waking me up.”

“You’re not a freaking carpet in any metaphor, you’re the whole damn house,” Dean says, “And that’s more —- the other drugs. The antidepressants.”

“For anxiety?”

“Hey, I don’t make the rules,” Dean says, “It’s —- whatever. They said sticking with the same ones as last time was better, I dunno, I just. Don’t really wanna think about it.”

“You don’t _want to_ , or you aren’t thinking about it?”

“Both,” Dean says, “Neither. All of the above. Can we just --- can we _not_? I just --- fuckin’ sick it of it,” Dean says… and that’s _relatable_. Castiel is sick of it, too. It is frustrating and sad and he can’t change anything. He can’t _imagine_ how fed up Dean must be.

“Okay,” Castiel says, “What do you want to do?”

“Nothing,” Dean says, shuts his eyes and curls his hand around his coffee. 

In the end, Dean gets as far as showering and getting dressed before he emerges from the bedroom, sees the creased-open leaflet about sleep hygiene on the counter, mutters something about _laundry_ and retreats back into his head, leaving Castiel to face the outside world alone. 

*

“Good milk run?”

“I successfully acquired milk,” Castiel says, setting the bags down on the counter and frowning. Technically, he also bought half the week’s groceries, but that’s normally a _Dean job_ and he did go to the supermarket, he just… didn't successfully get sufficient food and Castiel didn’t really want to have a conversation about it because it seemed likely to make him grouchy. Really, Castiel would rather just _take over_ these things while Dean is so saturated with everything else, but that probably falls into the category of Castiel “babying him” (even though it’s entirely logical, given Dean works five days a week and Castiel has half a paid job and these other, nebulous volunteer responsibilities and ad hoc legal consults; he has _more time_ and more energy, but…). “I hate the shops on a Saturday. We should get groceries delivered and never leave the house again.” 

“Good plan,” Dean says, which is proof enough that Dean is only half-listening. Dean hates paying for anything to be delivered, with the exception of takeout.

“Nora called. Her sister is in town.”

“She need a sitter?” 

“I told her it was a bad time.”

“We don’t have any plans,” Dean shrugs, which is _true_ but… they haven’t actually _talked_ about anything that wasn’t to do with trauma management or chores all week, except for last night and that was just a distraction technique. They’ve watched TV together in the most stripped back sense of the words, in that Dean didn’t offer up his usual commentary, enthusiasm or opinions. Most nights this week Dean has been adjacent to _non-verbal_ which is completely understandable, he’d just _hoped_ that they could actually do something this evening. Not anything that required energy or _leaving the house_ or much of Dean’s headspace, but something… fun. Something _together_.

Not babysitting. 

“I know,” Castiel frowns, putting the milk in the fridge. 

“If you’re waiting for me to be spewing sunshine and rainbows to have a damn life, you’re gonna be waiting awhile.”

“That’s _not_ what I’m doing,” Castiel says.

“You _like_ hanging out with Tanya.”

“She’ll be asleep,” Castiel says, “It’s only a few hours.”

“So, you should do it.” Dean says, and… that’s _you_ not _we_ , which is to be expected. Dean was awake half the night with a ‘technicolour flashback of the trauma of the week’, so it’s not a shock that Dean doesn’t want to drive for an hour to babysit for one of Castiel’s friends. It’s not a two person job and Nora didn’t particularly sound like she even _wanted_ him to say yes (her relationship with her sister is tremulous at best), which all contributed to his no. Dean thinks he should go, though. He doesn’t _want_ to hang out with Castiel and that’s… it’s one evening, and it’s understandable, it’s just… once, Dean came and babysat with him even when he was coming down with the flu. 

This is… different to the flu and Castiel is probably being selfish. He _wants_ to be more understanding and more patient, but he—- he is fed up of how _hard_ everything is too. That’s how he feels, even if he should be better than that. 

“You think I should do it,” Castiel says.

“Why not?” Dean asks, rearranging the fridge to fit in the pack of mince. 

“Yes,” Castiel sighs. “Alright.” 

*

While Nora is out, Castiel spends a long time sitting on her couch thinking about Dean reassuring him that he wasn’t _exiling him_ by sending him to New York weeks ago and that the same probably applies here. Except, then he starts thinking about whether Dean wants _space_ like he sort of wanted then and how little Castiel wants space, and then he’s back to reminding himself why he shouldn’t just text Sam Winchester to say _do you really think that Dean attempting two therapy sessions and his support group every week is sustainable or in fact helpful?_

He doesn’t care about _Sam’s opinion_ , he cares about Dean’s, he’s just not sure if he is allowed to ask.

And then he thinks about how this is the first time since they’ve been in a relationship that Dean has opted _not_ to come with him while he’s babysat (when he didn’t have other prior commitments). He hasn’t text him, either. Castiel is still mostly convinced that he’s being childish and petty and unreasonable again — because he remembers Dean falling apart in his arms, sobbing, dragging out these awful, harrowing truths — but… Castiel _does_ want Dean to still be texting him bad jokes and updates about his evening. 

Nora gets back earlier than expected, before he’s gotten round to actually putting on her television because she had a semi-inevitable argument with her sister. She flits around the kitchen telling him about that for a while — apparently the desire to vent about siblings is universal, Dean is just the exception with Sam —- before pausing in the kitchen and fixing him with one of those _mother_ looks that he’s always found emotionally compromising and difficult to resist. “Castiel, tell me what’s wrong.”

He doesn’t really have any plausible deniability.

“It’s —- Dean, but it’s…”

“Okay,” Nora says, “Talk to me.”

“No, you don’t need me to ruin your evening.” 

“Castiel,” Nora says, pulling one of the complicated clips out of hair and letting it drop round her shoulders. “My sister commenting on my leftover baby weight ruined my evening. You are my saviour.” 

“Your sister is absurd,” Castiel says, “You look lovely.” 

“You’re very kind,” Nora says, brushing past him to acquire tea bags and two mugs. “Talk to me about Dean.”

And… he wants to, actually. Everything is sitting heavily on him today and he would _like_ to talk about it, which is a long way from his instinct of wanting to squirrel this information away and hibernate. On the other hand, it’s not really his to tell. He spoke to Gabriel because Dean designed it that way and he’s spoken to his newly instated therapist, but talking to Nora sounds appealing. Not about _Dean’s trauma_ , but their relationship. The overlap is what makes it complicated. 

“He,” Castiel begins, then pauses, but —- what had Dean said? _A communication device, so that you didn’t have to get into it_. Dean said he had used the term when it was linguistically beneficial and he didn’t say the term was inaccurate, he just said he didn’t understand how it was supposed to help. That’s bordering an endorsement. “He has PTSD.”

“Army?” Nora asks. 

“No,” Castiel says, “His last relationship was —- bad. In prison now, bad.”

“The lost years,” Nora substitutes.

“Yes,” Castiel says, “And… he is struggling and he is Dean, so I am not allowed to just _look after him_ , or try to help, or buy bedsheets.” 

“Bedsheets?

” “I —- it’s not of import,” Castiel says, “Dean is much better at being a care-giver than a care-receiver.” 

“Because of this thing with his ex?”

“No, that has always been the case, although currently he has limited capacity to do the former, too, and _he is tired_ , but all we do is talk about serious things and I want—— I want, I don’t know. Something. That’s unfair. I’m awful.”

“Castiel, you’re not awful.” Nora says, setting down a cup of tea opposite him and gesturing him to sit. 

“He’s _not okay_.”

“That doesn’t stop you from being a person who wants things,” Nora says “My ex was ex-army and it’s… complicated." 

“I feel like I’m inconvenient.” 

“To Dean? Never,” Nora says, “It’s hard, trying to get that intimacy with someone who’s put their walls up.” 

Castiel’s brain sticks on intimacy for a moment before he realises that Nora isn’t talking about sex because there’s no reason she’d automatically go there, she’s just talking about _intimacy generally_. 

“I _understand_ the walls.”

“That doesn't mean they don’t hurt.” 

“But that’s so —- _illogical._.”

“Castiel,” Nora says. “You know love isn’t supposed to be logical.”

That’s true. He’s glad it isn’t, really, because if love was logical he’d gotten over Dean Winchester when he was thirteen and he’d never have gotten _any of this_. He already lived too many years not knowing how it felt when Dean kissed him, he wouldn’t’ve liked to do it forever. 

“What happened? With your ex?” 

“Well, it didn’t work out,” Nora says, “But —- he wasn’t really willing to discuss it, at all. That’s what he needed to do, how he needed to deal with it, it just couldn’t work for me. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, just couldn’t work. You two strike me as much better at communicating than we were.”

“That’s only because you didn’t see us for the first fifteen years we knew each other,” Castiel says, “I assure you our communication skills were _plenty rusty_.” 

“Well that’s even better,” Nora says, “You _already_ have a precedent for working things out. Castiel, if I know you, you’re _all in this_... so maybe this is just one of those shitty seasons you have to wait out, or _maybe_ if you talked about it there’s some things you could do and you’re just suffering unnecessarily.”

“I,” Castiel begins, “I don’t want him to do anything he doesn’t _want_ to for my sake.” 

“That’s kind of how it works. Compromise.”

“I don’t want him to feel —— obligated.“

“A relationship is an obligation,” Nora says. “He wanted to be obligated to you.”

“He…” Castiel begins, “He didn’t have the power of _choice_ in that situation. He was manipulated and hurt and coerced.”

“That’s not what we’re talking about here,” Nora says.

“He’s _vulnerable_ ,” Castiel says, even though he hates it. Dean would hate that term, would hate him talking like this, but it’s not inaccurate. Currently, Dean is emotionally fraught and _anxious_ and not sleeping and Castiel is terrified of doing or saying anything that could lead to Dean _going along_ with something. 

“Then you have to be very clear,” Nora says, “Castiel, if he’s accidentally hurting you and doesn’t know about it, then he still doesn’t have the power of choice. Dean seems like a tough cookie to me.”

“Yes,” Castiel says, “He is —— incredible. I just... I just want us to spend time together.”

“You’re right, you are a monster,” Nora says, “How dare you? Look, this is all about honesty.”

“But _he is_ being honest,” Castiel says, ringing his hands slightly, because —- Dean had said that he would _tell Castiel everything_ , and he has, and Castiel finally understands why Dean was reluctant to do in the first place. He actually understands, now, what Dean tried to tell him about his relationship with Sam feeling _unequal_ and lopsided for years. It’s not the same, but he _sees it now_ , and —- It all comes down to the fact that _Dean_ is being honest and Castiel is not. In trying to be _sensitive_ he has been acting like Dean can’t handle Castiel’s feelings and emotions and —- really, Castiel has been distancing himself as much as Dean has and it’s infuriating. “I’m the one _sitting on things_.”

“Okay. Does he —- is he _good_ with hard truths?”

“Yes,” Castiel says, thinking back to Castiel blurting out that he couldn’t stop thinking about Alastair back at the beginning of their relationship and Dean, calm and unperturbed, telling Castiel that trauma is an earthquake. Yes, _sometimes_ Dean snaps and bites back, and the Dean of their teenage years was likely to do something stupid rather than acknowledge he had feelings about anything, but… but _mostly_ Dean has never expected Castiel to react better or differently to how he has. After he got back from visiting Gabriel in New York, Dean said their relationship was the best thing in his life. Dean has not necessarily been acting like that is the case, but he has a ‘damn graveyard’ in his head and is pigheadedly attempting to cram years worth of healing into a few weeks so that he can resume his normal life. He is _consumed_ with other things, yes, but Castiel should probably be secure and measured enough to bridge the gap. 

He’s never been very good at that. 

“Go talk to him,” Nora says, “There might not be an immediate fix, but… most of the time, these things are better aired out than not.”

“Like laundry.”

“Exactly,” Nora smiles, “Like laundry.”

When he gets back, Dean is sitting at the kitchen table with a white knuckle grip on his non-alcoholic beer, shoulders tense, phone in hand. He visibly relaxes as Castiel comes in, his exhale loud in the otherwise silence of their apartment. 

“You took your time,”

“Ah, Nora and I got talking after I text you.”

“Right,” Dean says, rubbing the back of his neck, with some of his tension fizzling out of his shoulders. “Okay.”

“Dean, I didn’t mean to worry you,” Castiel says. He’d like to cross the kitchen and coax the rest of the tension out of Dean’s shoulders with his thumbs, but he’s not entirely sure that it would be welcome and… this is not standard-Dean behavior. He has always found Castiel’s habit of not looking at his phone annoying, but not genuinely worrisome. “She cornered me with tea and sympathy.”

“Whatever,” Dean says, voice pulled taunt. “You wanna drink?”

“Dean,”

“Just —- figured you’d be back by now after your message.”

“I’ll —I should’ve text you after.”

“I’m not a thirteen year old girl,” Dean says, shaking his head and picking at the label on his beer. “You’re fine. Sympathy, huh?”

“I’m having a bad day,” Castiel says. 

“You’d think I’d know that.”

“Emotionally,” Castiel says, “Not circumstantially.” 

“Right,” Dean says, forehead creasing and forcing himself to his feet, “You taking that beer? Pretty sure we still have real crap, somewhere.”

“ I wanted to talk to you.” Castiel says. He’s been thinking about it for most of the journey home, with one of Dean’s radio stations blaring out a soft, familiar hum of classic rock. It was helpful for building up some kind of resolve. “But…maybe now isn’t the time. You’re —- agitated.”

“I’m fine,” Dean says, standing up and heading for the fridge. “It was --- forty damn minutes, not a big deal. You wanna talk, let’s talk.”

“I think,” Castiel says, stopping Dean with a hand on his shoulder, because he’s not really _looking at him_. He’s wrung out and frustrated with himself and Castiel would rather _actually_ have a moment with Dean than have a damn beer, just like he’d generally rather Dean _stopped, breathed, took some time_ than his doomed mission to continue his life exactly as is, whilst not sleeping and adding in multiple weekly appointments to talk about significant psychological trauma. “I would rather start with a hug.”

“I’m _fine_.” Dean bites out. 

“That suggestion wasn’t for your benefit,” Castiel says, nudging the fridge shut and settling in Dean’s orbit and, finally, Dean looks at him properly and some of the angry-hard edges of his mood caves in, until it’s _just Dean_. A very tired, fed up version of himself, but still Dean.

“Bad day, huh?” Dean asks, voice softer and stripped back as he wraps his arms around him. “Feels like kind of a theme, right about now.”

“Hmm,” Castiel agrees, muffling the word into the excellent curve of Dean’s neck, thumbing along the edge of his t-shirt and feeling some of the choking-worry loosen up inside his chest. They are _good_ at this part, generally. He always feels much better about everything when Dean is so close and perfect and warm and _safe_. It’s their physical boundaries being upturned and confusing that’s _getting to him_ , along with everything else. “I’m sorry you worried.”

“Not your fault my head is fucked.” Dean says, smoothing a hand over his shoulders and exhaling. Regardless of what Dean said, he seems to be drawing strength from physical proximity too. 

“It’s not _fucked_.”

“It’s not exactly on my damn side,” Dean says, “Whole freaking grapefruit calling a mutiny, but —you wanna talk about _you_ , so let’s do that.”

“Us,” Castiel says, “I want to talk about us. Or— our appointment. I think we could use the time more productivity. I … I don’t want us to talk about Alastair. I want to talk about us.”

Dean pulls back just enough to look at him, eyebrow half rising. He looks worn out enough that it’s tempting to abandon the whole initiative but _this_ isn’t helping anyone. Castiel has known that for quite some time, but...it feels more pressing today after an _entire clear day_ of them _not_ communicating or talking about anything.

“Us,” Dean repeats, “Okay. That because you don’t wanna hear anymore about _Alastair_ or because you’re worried _about us_?”

“Both and neither,” Castiel says, “I’m not _worried_ , Dean, and I’m happy to discuss whatever is helpful about Alastair, but...”

“Happy to, huh.”

“ _Willing to_ ,” Castiel corrects, reaching out to cup his cheek and run a thumb over the rough of his jaw. “Able to. Dean, you can tell me everything, or you can never talk about it again. I don’t --- I don’t _want to know_ because I _want to know_ , it’s just… pragmatic, but I think talking about _us_ , separate to and unrelated to Alastair, will be more helpful.”

“Helpful for _you_ or me?”

“Helpful _as a collective_ ,” Castiel says.

“You know, we can talk about _us_ anytime you want.” Dean says, drawing back to reclaim his beer and head for the sofa. “No rule that just cause we have a shrink we have to talk through her.”

“I _know that_.” Castiel says, following him. “I’m just….”

“Know I’m not exactly a lot of fun right now.”

“Dean, I don’t need you to be fun,” Castiel says, which wins him a humorless smile and a slight shake of the head. It’s that kind of look that suggests that common convention means he should have lied and told Dean that is an endless fountain of fun to be polite. “Do you remember that fun trip where you came to the beach house with me while I mourned for my father?” 

“ _Parts_ of it was fun.”

“Yes, it was fun to reconnect with you.”

“Meant the sex, actually.”

“The other parts were much more important to me than that.”

“Right,” Dean says,”Pius, monk Castiel strikes again.”

“You are infuriating.”

“ _Snap_ ,” Dean throws back, swinging his legs onto the coffee table and not looking at him, “Obviously, I care more about the other ground we covered that trip, but you acting like the other part doesn’t matter is driving me crazy.”

“Of course it _matters_ ,” Castiel says, sharp enough that Dean raises his eyebrows again. “Dean, we’re not having sex right now. That is what it is. And —- yes, I miss it, because I want _intimacy_ , Dean, I have always wanted to be close to you, but —- I _also_ feel that when we kiss. When you talk to me about how you feel. When we _share experiences_ , or when you’re vulnerable in front of me, or let me look after you. I _do_ feel like I’m missing something, but it’s not _sex,_ Dean, it’s _togetherness._ In the context of our relationship, _sex_ is an expression of intimacy and love and affection. It’s communicative, Dean, and we took it out without _replacing it with anything else_.”

“You’re getting dangerously fucking close to using the term _making love._ ” Dean says, setting his beer down on the coffee table and looking at him with an expression tinged by fondness. It’s soft enough that Castiel thinks Dean might actually tolerate the term if Castiel got him at the right moment and the thought of that makes him smile. “But, okay.”

“ _Sleeping with you_ makes me feel cherished and secure and safe. But do you know what else makes me feel like that? You calling me _sweetheart_ or _sunshine_. You making me coffee. You including me in plans with your family.”

“So you want commissary extra-pet names until we can get it on again?” Dean asks, with this expression that’s complicated and difficult for Castiel to decipher. He’s offered _very little_ by way of opinions since Castiel started talking, which is… unsettling.

“It’s an _example_ ,” Castiel deadpans, looking at his hands, “I think --- I think this is _my fault,_ because you’re right, I have been diverting discussing this, but I feel like we stopped doing the other _intimate things_ , too. You —- you tell me about how you’re feeling because it’s sensible and because you agreed to full honesty, not because you _want_ to talk to me about this,”

“I don’t _want_ to talk about this with anyone,” Dean says, “Not like I’m chomping at the bit to talk about this shit with Sam, or in therapy.”

“I know, Dean,” Castiel says, “I’m just…”

“You’re --- unhappy.” Dean supplies, “That’s okay, you know, this isn’t what you signed up for.”

“I’m not _unhappy_ ,” Castiel says, “And I signed up to _be with you_ , that isn’t contingent on you being fun or —-“

“ — or sane,” Dean interjects. “So what, exactly, are you asking for?”

“I don’t know, Dean, I just _miss you_ and I don’t know how to say that without it sounding like this is _about sex_ , which it isn’t, and —— and you’re not _not sane_.”

“Okay,” Dean says, “So you wanna —— talk about other kinds of intimacy?”

“You can say no to this,” Castiel says, “You aren’t obligated to talk about it because we’re in a relationship.”

“Don’t actually need the consent lesson, Cas. I got it.” 

“No, I need to be clear about this,” Castiel says, “If any intimacy isn’t something you can offer right now then —- I understand that, and I can _wait_ for you to be able to.”

“Cas, that’s awful.” 

“Dean, what happened to you is awful, and —- intimacy has to be given, Dean, it can’t be taken. If you can’t then you _can’t_ , I just —- didn’t want it to be this way because I haven’t expressed myself, because I think it’s …. counterproductive. I don’t want to ask things of you when everything in your life is hard right now—-”

“—- Look, you can ask for anything you want,” Dean says, “And I’ll _try,_ man, whatever it is.”

That’s not nearly as reassuring as Dean probably intends it to be.

“But you _will_ say no if it will _cost you_ something, or if you don’t want to,” Castiel says, forehead creased as he _looks at him_. “Won’t you?”

“I _know_ how to say fucking no.”

“Dean,” Castiel says, voice low, “I’m not trying to patronise you. I hope —- you can _understand_ why it… concerns me.” 

“Yeah,” Dean says, deliberately calm, measured. He’s definitely _wearing it_ , rather than feeling it, but that’s a much better reaction that Castiel would have expected. He doesn’t give Dean enough credit for _how hard_ he tries to allow for Castiel’s messy, complicated feelings about all of this. Castiel _knows_ , Dean. He knows how much _this_ particularly conversation must be grating on Dean’s don’t-baby-me-instincts. “I know that you’re trying to be a good guy here, but I _swear_ , Cas, that you’re in a totally different filing system than _anything_ to do with fucking Alastair.”

Castiel would _love_ to just accept that. It would be much more convenient if he could just _believe it_ , but this is much more complicated than that.

“But I’m _not_ , Dean,” Castiel says, even though he hates himself for it. Dean purposeful composure cracks slightly. He squares his jaw, swallows, looks at the wall for a few moments.

“Cas,” Dean says, “What’s happening here has absolutely nothing to do with our relationship and everything to do with a lot of stuff that happened a long time ago. I get that it puts pressure on us and I —- I said we were the priority, and I _meant that_ , it’s just —- complicated.” 

“This,” Castiel begins, slowly. Airing things out is good, just like laundry. He’s gotten so far with this conversation, he doesn’t want to back out just because it’s hard. “Some of this _is_ about us.”

“No, it’s not.

“You don’t trust me right now, because you don’t trust anyone right now.”

“That’s not about _you_.” 

“I didn’t say it was _about me_.” Castiel says, “I said it was _about us._ Dean —- I want you to have a healthy and satisfying sex life _regardless_ of our relationship, but we _are_ in a relationship, and it seems —- logical, that the first step in that is _you trusting me_. I don’t think the way to achieve that is by our ability to communicate _getting worse_ and —- it’s easy for people's relationships to fall into _patterns_ and —-”

“Castiel, I _know_ that you would never deliberately cause me pain, let alone get off on it.”

“Yes,” Castiel agrees, “But I don’t want to do it by _accident_ either. I don’t want to be _complicit_ in causing you harm, at all.” 

“Are we talking about sex again?”

“No,” Castiel says, even though they’re not _not_ talking about sex. He hasn’t _forgotten_ that the trigger point for all of this was Dean wanting to test his boundaries and not telling him about it, which wasn’t _acceptable_ , even if it was understandable.

“Look,” Dean says, finally taking Castiel’s hand and running a thumb over his knuckles. “I’m in love with you. Mostly, the stuff you _want_ from me lines up pretty damn well with what’s in my best interest because you’re in love with me too, I trust that. I promise you that I’m not gonna go along with something that’s detrimental to my welfare just cause I think you want me too, and you’ve made it pretty clear that you’re not looking for an out, and if that’s _still_ the case —”

“Of course it is,” Castiel says, “Dean, you are my favourite person in existence. I adore you. I _love you_ when you’re fun and light and I love you when you are crippled by the flu and _I love you_ when you’re battling with your subconscious and your history,” Castiel says, “My opinion of you is set. I _know_ who you are, I’m just —— concerned about hurting you.” 

“I can look after myself,” Dean says, catching Castiel’s expression and frowning. ”I know I _didn’t_ , but. I’ve learned that fucking lesson pretty hard.” 

“I know that,” Castiel says, brow furrowed, “It just worries me.” 

“Yeah,” Dean says, shutting his eyes for a moment. “I want that, anyway. The intimacy thing. I miss it too. It’s, it’s not _you_ , Cas, I just don’t really know what I’m doing here.”

“Me neither.” 

“And you’ve been —- great.”

“Dean. I haven’t been _great_. I, I should’ve been more honest. You _asked me_ to be." 

“It’s really hard to be honest about this stuff, Cas,” Dean says, “So,” Dean says, turning their hands over, threading their fingers together and smiling at him. It’s a good smile, even though it’s layered on top of pain and worry. It’s honest, at least. “Wanna make out?” 

“Yes please,” Castiel exhales, slightly shaky as he crawls into Dean’s space, cups his cheek and smiles at him. Dean is the one who closes the rest of the gap and it’s _good_ and slow and easy and it quences some thirst that’s been simmering for days. Except, the overthinking is _very easy_ to slip back into, and… this is still physical intimacy and yes, it’s glorious to have Dean so close, with his hands resting on his lower back, foreheads pressed together, but maybe he _he wasn’t clear_. “This isn’t the _only_ thing I was referencing.” Castiel says, pulling back to frown at him.

“Oh, I heard you sweetheart,” Dean says, smiling at him a little, “But it’s too damn late for coffee, or hanging out with my family, or whatever else you mentioned.” 

“I —- shared experiences.” 

“Making out is an experience,” Dean says, hooking a finger round Castiel’s belt loop with a warm-smirk. He hasn’t seen _this_ Dean --- joking and teasing --- and Castiel would _like_ to believe that it's genuine, but there’s so much _in his head_. He wants this. He wants it to be _simple_.

“A very good experience,” Castiel agrees, as Dean leans forward to kiss him again. Castiel pulls back slightly to stop him. “But it is more… _complicated_ than the other things” 

“Cas,” Dean breathes, muttering his name into his neck, “I love you and everything, but can you stop talking about how _complicated_ things are for five damn minutes?” 

“But —” 

“Shut up,” Dean says with a smile, putting a finger to his lips. “First rule of intimacy, sunshine. _Be present._ ” 

“What’s the second rule?” 

“No idea,” Dean says, “Too busy being freakin’ present to make up a second rule.” 

“See how much fun you are?” 

“Oh, you’re a riot,” Dean mutters. “Regular comedian.” 

“Dean,” Castiel says, pressing their foreheads together, “I love you very much.” 

“Yeah, I worked that out,” Dean returns, kissing him one last time before pulling back, “And it’s mutual, but I’m also freakin’ _exhausted_ so…” 

“Yes, bed,” Castiel agrees, standing up and stretching. If he was a better man, he’d have attempted to insist Dean _sleep_ rather start this conversation, but he isn’t and Dean’s very stubborn, anyway. Dean _does_ need to sleep, though. Both of them do. “It’s late.” 

He feels _lighter_ as he follows Dean into their bedroom, even though nothing’s really fixed. They haven’t _changed_ anything, even if they’ve aired some of it, and regardless of how much Dean wants to talk about it, things are still complicated and difficult and it isn’t likely to change quickly. It’s more a _commitment_ to open up a dialogue than anything in the else.

“Look,” Dean says, hovering at the edge of the bathroom door while Castiel is brushing his teeth in one of Dean’s old t-shirts and his underwear. It’s very domestic. They _are_ domestic, these days. Most of the time he likes that. “Sorry about Monday. Know it freaks you out when _I_ freak out.”

Castiel _can’t_ reply until he’s spat out the rest of his toothpaste -- which is probably _why_ Dean chose that moment to bring it up, five days after the fact --- but, after he sets his toothbrush down and catches Dean’s eye. They did talk about this right afterwards, just not since. They probably needed to.

“You have nothing to apologise for.” 

“Yeah, I just … I _thought_ that…” 

“I know,” Castiel says, wiping away the toothpaste off the corner of his mouth and catching Dean’s eye in the bathroom mirror. “One day, Dean.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, pushing off the wall and bursting into movement until he’s lined up next to him at the sink. “One day.”

“My _outburst_ wasn’t to do with that.”

“Oh I know,” Dean says, “You make it any clearer that you’re not pushing for sex, I’m gonna start thinking you’re going celibate.” 

“I am _very_ interested in sex,” Castiel says, “Promise.” 

“Good,” Dean says, hip-checking him on his way to his own toothbrush, “Because _one day_...” 

“Hmm,” Castiel hums, kissing him briefly on the way back out of the room. 

“Mmh, minty fresh. ”Dean says, waggling his eyebrows at him because he is _charming_ and _lovely_ and softens the world with his default-to-lighthearted. Castiel would _like_ Dean to never experience anything but good things: an endless string of Sunday family dinners; of hanging out with Sam and knowing, all the way to his bones that Sam would do anything for him; very good date nights with _Castiel_ , which end with them curled up around each other in bed and talking about childhoods on the beach. Normally, Dean reminds him that _this_ wouldn’t have happened without _that_ because he is incredible and wise and _strong_. Castiel doubts that he will ever be able to see it like that --- as something to accept and move on from --- but… This _will_ pass. Dean is overwhelmed and tired and not doing well, but he is still Dean.

Castiel kisses him again and mutters _goodnight Dean_ into his lips and, after, Dean declares himself to be the big spoon and wraps his arms around him, so that he’s cocooned in _Dean_ and _their new bedsheets_ and sleepy, tentative hope.

* 

“Dean,” He croaks out, voice sleep rough and gritty. He finds him in the front room, with the TV showing loony tunes on mute, _ironing_ what looks to be a stack of Castiel’s shirts. “Why are you ironing?” Castiel asks, propped up against the door with his mind still thick with sleep. 

“Well, you’ve been in court a lot, last couple of weeks,” Dean says, “Need you looking sharp to save the damn whales, or whatever.”

“Soup kitchen,” Castiel says, “There are no whales. Dean….”

“You should get some sleep, Cas.”

“But,” Castiel begins, frowning at the cup of the coffee at the edge of the ironing board. Dean is dressed. He’s clearly been up for _awhile_. Castiel was clearly _very deeply_ asleep to miss Dean getting up, getting dressed and _staying up_ and his brain is still fuzzy with it now. Too fuzzy to pick out the correct words. “ _You_ need sleep.”

“One out of two aint bad.”

“Statistically, it isn’t _great_. In most formal examinations it would not be a pass.”

“You gonna make me steer you back to bed and tuck you in?” Dean throws back. His words are slightly shaky. They lack his normal conviction. 

“Yes,” Castiel says, “I demand it.”

“Fine,” Dean says, setting down the damnable iron (Castiel did not actually know that they _owned one_ , but there you go) and gently pushing him back in the direction of their bedroom with a hand on his back.

“Are you alright?”

“Alive and kicking,” Dean says, as he actually makes good on his ridiculous threat to pull the covers back over Castiel. It’s also a very effective way of saying _no, I am not alright_ which is at least honest. 

“You won’t come back to bed.”

“No,” Dean says, “I just ---- not tonight.”

“Okay,” Castiel says. He never really made it past his eyes being more than half open and the tendrils of sleep are creeping back through his thoughts. Somewhere, there is an extensive logical argument about why Dean should either come back to bed or let Castiel sit up with him, but his limbs feel very heavy. “Dean.” 

“Night, darling.” Dean says and kisses him on the cheek.


End file.
